


Amplify

by Sleepmarshes



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Comedy, Drama, F/M, Gen, Romance, Smut, action (kind of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 137,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepmarshes/pseuds/Sleepmarshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between the two of them is a link. He wants to start a fight with her, though he can't tell if it's to attempt to dissolve their resonating side-effect or because he may or may not have PMS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Panic Switch

**Author's Note:**

> Yo so like this story was written and posted six years ago on ffnet and I was hanging on to a lot of internalized bullshit at the time so here is a warning: there is a buttload of problematic stuff in this story (including but probably not limited to: SLURS, INTERNALIZED MISOGYNY, SHIT I NOW CONSIDER DUBCON, KIND OF SKEEVY ABUSE/MANIPULATION, AND PROBABLY SOME OTHER CRAP) which I am both aware of and not proud of. My apologies. Please take everything with a grain of salt and know that, these days, I actively try to keep gross things out of my writing and my life. As it is, Amp kind of stands as a testament to my growth as not just a writer but also a human.

**Soul**

**  
**

Between the two of them is a link. He assumes it's a by-product of being her weapon and resonating almost every freakin' battle. Not that he will ever suggest not using Soul Resonance; as long as he can keep the demon  _shut up_ , there isn't a more satisfying feeling than being completely merged with his meister. Her ability to balance him perfectly and the resulting kick-assery is worth the current side effects.

Some days, the link is like having an extra set of eyes. If they're attuned to each other enough, he knows when to run to her. Like when there's a knife at her throat, or when she trips down the stairs. Likewise, he knows when she's absolutely furious. Like today, when she sees that he's left his boxers on the bathroom floor again, and he's about to be Makachopped.

Other days, the link is a curse in which he fears for his blood pressure. Like when she's thinking about kittens and polka dots and ruffles, or when she's reading a romance novel. Particularly when she's eying the muscular structure of Black Star's calves or Kid's bare back and it makes  _his_  heart start beating erratically.

Like today, when she's on the rag, and all he can think about is chocolate.

He wants to start a fight with her, though he can't tell if it's to attempt to dissolve their resonating side effect or because he may or may not have PMS. The better terms they are on, the sexier Soul Resonance becomes, and the better their teamwork- but the more he eyes chocolate pudding. Sure, yeah, if they're fighting with each other the chances of them dying in battle is significantly higher. It's probably a bad idea. Can't stop a guy from dreaming. But if they both are in the same room and have a tandem mood swing, may Shinigami have mercy on Soul's soul.

In the late evening during such a week of The Albarn Cycle, Soul finds himself inside a convenience store run by some bastardized hybrid of a mummy and a phantasm, torn between a display of chocolate covered cashews and the specialty ice cream freezer. He feels the clerk staring at him, though he doesn't have legitimate eyeballs.

Irritated, he gives up and buys two pints of something too hard to pronounce but appears to contain brownies and fudge, two tins of the cashews, and pays for them without mauling anyone. Thirteen steps outside the shop's door, he stops, swears, and does a one-eighty back in to buy tampons, because he knows she's been meaning to buy more today but has been preoccupied between contemplating kicking babies in the face or committing seppuku. As he leaves the second time, he contemplates kicking babies in the face or committing seppuku, understanding the dilemma.

The closer to the apartment he reaches, the more aware of her discomfort he becomes. She's in a lot more pain this time around. It makes him twitchy. He fumbles with his keys to unlock the door; berates himself for fumbling over period cramps. So not cool. He plans his next course of action to calm down his nerves: she's not being attacked. Blair should still be home so it isn't like Maka is alone. No one's in their house trying to kill her. He has ice cream in a bag. He'll put it in the freezer, casually check up on her, possibly chuck some tampons at her face, eat some cashews and watch the most violent movie he can find in their DVD stash. Sounds like a plan.

He shuts the door and juggles his keys and grocery bags to flip the dead bolt. Maka's discomfort buzzes in the back of his head, white noise trying to overtake his thoughts. The moment the bolt snaps home, he's already flying to her before her tidal wave of panic reaches its full, stinging throb in his gut. He thinks somewhere in his mind that this is uncalled for- there's no one attacking her, there's no need to become the scythe, damn it all, there goes the ice cream- as his arm becomes the blade and slices the fragile plastic handles like air. His legs can't move any faster though he hears quiet whimpers and choking gasps resonating off bathroom tiles.

He rushes into the bathroom, ready to kill anyone. It takes a full four seconds for his body to accept that she is, in fact, alone in the room, and more or less safe from harm if only from outside sources.

On the fifth second, she gives him a look that completely alienates him. She has pigtails but it isn't  _her._ This person is too pathetic. Legs too pale and splayed too haphazardly. Spine too hunched. Fingers splayed too wide. Circles too dark under wet and entirely too frightened eyes. It scares the blade back into his arm. It gives him the impression of someone else, like Crona. This isn't his meister, crumpled up next to his crumpled boxers he'd left on the floor. It isn't her at all, though that is her toothbrush that's slid under the still-running sink with a smear of toothpaste on three separate tiles, and that is definitely his favorite shirt he's been missing for two weeks that she's using as pajamas.

But as she hunches over- mouth grimacing, hands clutching abdomen- he feels it. It hurts. Crona-possession be damned, he nearly collides into her, grasping for her, grappling her body to find what is wrong, swearing and confused and  _scared_. What the hell? Why is she hurting? Poison? Crazy-assed spy parasite? His heart skips a beat when he considers the unknowns of black blood. Where is that pumpkin-titted excuse for a witch? She should be here, helping! He does  **not**  like not being able to fight whatever is making her cry out this way. He itches to be the scythe again.

Maka shakes and looks even paler than ten seconds ago. Her skin is clammy and it feels wrong to touch her. She hisses as she sucks in air, forcing herself to breathe. He scrambles to get up and get the phone and call for help because evidently,  _he's fucking useless_. His steps echo on the tile and then the hallway. His foot gets caught on a grocery bag and, in effort to keep his balance, ends up sliding on his ring of keys on the hardwood floor. He narrowly dodges the corner of the parlor grand, and barely reaches the living room without major injuries. He has to use his entire brain to get a coherent language out of his mouth to relay information over the phone, all the while her panic stabbing him and his panic eating it and growing from it.

Once he hears that an emergency unit is on the way, he tosses the phone and goes back to Maka. He's shaking, but he tells himself it's because he's hugging her from behind while she's shuddering and moaning. He's cursing and apologizing and he just wants to  _get at it_  but he can't and it pisses him off. She's trying her best not to scream; he can feel it held back in her lungs, which was a better job than he was doing. She garbles out things like 'I can't' and 'What is' and 'I'm sorry' and he can't help but bark at her, "Shut the fuck up! Those are all things I should be saying!"

So she settles for more moaning and "Soul, Soul," while clutching her left side as she's blinded by pain. The link between them is swarming with things he can't keep track of, but he tries his best to take it all in, because he doesn't know what else he can do. Every cry of his name stabs him. His meister is  _calling_  for him but he can't respond in turn.

* * *

He had just returned from the bathroom when he finds her doctor with a jar of something bulbous, disconnected, and nauseating. The doctor places it on the night stand, next to the flowers her father had sent earlier. Maka is awake now, looking calm with a slightly tired face and a drugged look in her eyes. Her hair hangs down- out of it's usual style- amplifying the drowsy look.

"They're my cyst bits," she says matter-of-factly after the surgeon leaves. Soul feels her amusement at his grimace. He pulls the chair he had been using the past night to her bedside.

"Well, let's see your battle wounds," he deadpans. She grins, lifting up her hospital shirt and carefully leaving her lower half covered with her blanket, revealing a square of gauze she gently peels away. Underneath is a four-inch long incision to the lower left of her navel. A tiny mirror of his own scar. "Very cool. It's easy to tell it wasn't Stein who did your stitching."  
She giggles as she tapes the gauze back over it and settles back into the covers. A silence. Her feet shuffle underneath the blanket. "Soul," she says, "I'm sorry. Go home. You should sleep." He snorts. He looks at his reflection on the jar of her 'cyst bits.' The unattractive blobs in their contorted shapes merely accentuate how much of a wreck he looks.

"I'm staying," he grumbles. She opens her mouth to retort, but as he leans in his chair to place his crossed arms on her bed and cradle his face in them, she gives up whatever nonsense she had been planning to say. He feels her hand on his head, fiddling with his hair and gently massaging. Along their link, he feels something from her, somewhat of satisfaction, somewhat of relief. And he feels something else, not sure what it really is or who it belongs to, but he's tired and her fingers make his scalp feel good. Soul decides sleep is best.

He couldn't have been asleep for more than five minutes before she nudges him to wake up. He glares at her, growling his annoyances, but she's pulling at his jacket sleeve and then his hair because he doesn't budge the first time. He knows he's being taken advantage of, as he fumbles with his knees and hands trying to not squish her, because despite the fact that he's grumpy when he's half-awake, he's still easy to manipulate and mollify. And mollified he is, when she scoots over for him on the narrow bed, laying on her back, and turns her face away to make room on her shoulder. She tries her best to keep her knobby elbows to herself. He takes off his jacket and lets it slip through his fingers on the floor. He rests on his side and puts his free arm over her stomach. She squawks a bit when his draped arm gets a little too close to where she's had surgery and again when he's a little too close to her so-called tits, but eventually they reach acceptable ground. He kicks his shoes off and they thunk loudly on the floor. He closes his eyes and breathes evenly, even though her hair tickles his nose and she smells like antiseptics.

He feels rather than hears her voice through the shoulder his face rests upon when she again says, "I'm sorry, Soul."

He quietly grunts. The hands that are pinned between their bodies find each other. He dimly thinks that this position probably crosses a few lines, but he's comfortable, she's  _alive_ , and the contact between them is reassuring in ways that nothing else can ever replicate. He doesn't know why she's apologizing- he blames himself for not being at her side, and failing when he finally had been. He's too tired to argue, though. He yawns, and her fingers squeeze his.


	2. Play That Funky Music, White Boy

**Maka**

 

Who exactly is this creature with white fur and blood eyes and a chronic shortness because he thinks being slouchy looks cool? He is all canines and growls and slobber. He is protective of his friends. He is  _extremely_  protective of her. Soul reaches a sort of possessive servitude when it comes to her. Passive-aggressive servitude, yes, but the fact remains: he is loyal to her. She doesn't know if it's because he takes his job seriously, despite any of his less-than-satisfactory hobbies such as cutting class, or setting up jump rope competitions between Tsubaki and Blair, or pulling asymmetrical pranks on Kid. She doesn't know if it's because she's his closest friend and is thus at the top of the totem pole, though she's pretty sure Black Star takes that spot. She doesn't know if it's some other reason- something she dare not think of because the resulting karma for her foolishness would be nothing short of apocalyptic.

She really cares for this particular strange, albino-furred watch dog who refuses to let any harm come to her, who gets irked when she thinks of other guys, who shows (and sometimes doesn't show) restraint only for her, who buys her ice cream in the dead of night, and who is currently snoring on her shoulder. His breath is uncomfortably humid on her collar bone, and his snores rattle her ribcage. She can't help but smile. She also can't help but imagine him dreaming of a gigantic dog food bowl filled with squishy souls, but that's beside the point.

She doesn't want to get him involved in her feelings. She must keep them guarded. The idea of guarding anything from him is laughable, but she tries. It's a good gig they have together. Their trust is concrete. Their teamwork on the field is nearly unmatched. Their friendship is the one thing she cherishes above all others. So if she falters for one second- messes up and he finds out that she always wants him closer, that she can't look long into his eyes while hiding her heart's racing, that she wears his shirt at night because alone in her room it is the only comfort she has- it could all go up in smoke. He relies on her too- her mastery of wielding his scythe form, her courage, her understanding that he's a complete introvert, her silence at his brother-complex and perchance to purse his lips like a monkey when he's thinking about music. She can't risk destroying the trust he has in her.

So, Maka steels herself to feel nothing so he feels nothing. He's terribly perceptive though, as is commendable for a meister's weapon. It's a difficult and generally heartbreaking task.

She must be feeling too loudly, because he stops snoring and starts to stir. Albino watch-dog, indeed. Soul has always looked out for her, even in sleep.

There is always some kind of music going on inside him. Not always piano, not always a song he likes, but just whatever is lurking in his brain. While asleep, there are so many emotions and notes going on that she can't make sense of anything from the bond between them, but in waking, his music focuses. She can catch snippets of it, if he's relaxed and she stretches the bond wide enough. He doesn't hum or whistle or sing out loud, but his soul sings of something all day.

As he wakes, she can hear the notes his mind brings up from the depths. She stares at the ceiling and starts to hum along. He shifts a little, his arm over her stretching and grazing her stitches. Humming stopped, she chokes back a yelp. One breath. Two. His head pops up off her shoulder in delayed surprise. She turns her head to look at him. White fur tickles her as his head swivels to face her, confused red rising suns scrutinizing.

Ah, those eyes. How they stir her. How sad that she must disrupt that stare. "Yer arm, it hurts," she slurs, face merely inches from his. She receives a lot of eyebrow scrunching to her greeting. He looks at the arm in question.

"Ah- Shit. Sorry. Uhhhhg I need to  _piss._ "  
"Well don't go here."

He glares at her. "Don't tell me what to do," he mumbles. He looks mildly alarmed for a moment. "I can't find my other arm." He wriggles around, trying get his right arm out from between them.

"What, you mean-" She pulls their entwined fingers from under the blanket, "-THIS?" Soul stares at the offered appendage. She catches an eyebrow twitch. He hisses a little, complaining.

"It's waking up," he groans as he untangles himself from her hand and the hospital bed. He hurriedly slides on his shoes and slinks out of the room, heels hanging off the back of his sneakers.

Not a blush. Not even a 'Let go of my hand, woman!' How depressing. It's more insulting that he feels even less than disgust. Ah well, it is for the best. His lack of physical interest keeps them together, and she should take what she can get. He said he would die for her-  _surely_  she can't be greedy for more than that.

Maka finds herself staring at the door for his return. She is greedy. She craves for his presence so much that it's sickening.  _Like father like daughter._ She groans at such a realization, returning her gaze to the ceiling in disgust. She is a hopeless case.

She feels like she's floating and it annoys her a little. The calmness from the late afternoon light slanting into the room makes all the panic and pain from the previous night seem surreal. She remembers flashes of it: The plastic clatter of her toothbrush hitting the floor, the water endlessly gurgling into the sink drain. Her legs and hips and back cramping up as she cowers in pain. The sounds of Soul's keys in the door being the happiest sounds in her life. Soul's arms around her, trying to keep it in, trying to hold her together. Soul's fear.

Ovarian cysts seem silly after the countless near-death experiences they've had together. Thank heavens it was only that. Even if it could have been worse- internal bleeding or infertility or cancer- thank heavens it was only that. If it happens again, she will be ready. She had felt his fear. Soul's intense fear of not being able to do anything. His fear of losing her. His fear of  _her own_  fear. Though the tiniest bit flattering it may be, she never wants to feel Soul's fear again. She had lost her courage over mere pain in that bathroom. Next time, she  _will_  be ready. She never wants anything to happen that ever tests his loyalty to her that way.

She starts to hum again, though in surprise. She finds that the song stuck in his head is now stuck in hers. She can't help but smile.


	3. Death of the Cool

**Soul**

**  
**

He can't piss. He has a boner of which size and length may or may not rival his scythe form. It had been a damned miracle Maka hadn't noticed.

The hell! Did he ask to be aroused? He sits in a bathroom stall, refusing to touch himself out of spite. Masochist? Probably. Getting wood in the middle of sleep isn't new.  _Waking up next to her kind of is_. She'd been warm. And drowsy. Though why drowsiness is remotely stirring, he couldn't decide. Maybe the complete lack of being offended that he'd been sleeping on her that entire time? Maybe the little smile on her face when she had held their connected hands up? Maybe the half-lidded  _bedroom eyes_?

Shit. Not helping. Not cool at all. A hospital is definitely not the place to be a one-handed wonder, much less right after  _last night._

Soul leans back against the toilet tank, sighing. Thinking about the events of the previous night still leaves his muscles twitching and gut clenching. The panic he had felt in her and in himself had completely shaken him. He had never felt more deer-in-the-headlights in his life. He's far enough away from her to not have to hide his completely inferior sense of self-confidence. What would he have done if it had been worse than just a cyst? He felt like hell with less than eighteen hours and forty-five minutes of complete lack-of-control under his belt; how the hell would he have kept calm if she had had something more complicated? He doesn't want this kind of stress. Ah. That's how you kill an erection.

_"Soul, I'm sorry."_

He'll be ready next time. He would have to figure out how to manage their joined panic amplification in case it ever happens again. He'll be a pro at handling stress. It wasn't like his hair could get any grayer.

He kicks open the stall door and relieves himself at a urinal. Washing his hands, he catches himself in the mirror. He's looked worse. He uses a wet hand to pat down some stray bed-hairs defying gravity. The dampness is effective so much that he looks like his brother. He grimaces. His mind wanders to a segment of a song he's been toying with in his mind.

Had Maka really been humming it, or had he just imagined that? Had it been merely coincidence? Worse, has he been writing a song that has already existed this whole time? He ponders as he walks down the hallway back to her room. His footfalls echo in time to the piece as he runs through it in his mind. It is possible. Songwriters sometimes just find the same melodies that have already been found years before. Sometimes they write songs that they had heard once or twice in childhood, remembering it subconsciously. If that's the case, he'd be severely pissed off. He's been working hard, damn it. If his piece ends up being some knock-off from Wes, he's going to lock himself in the apartment and never come out.

He notices his steps are loud, and quiets them, walking softly as he comes closer to her door. He becomes aware of the link but doesn't feel anything exciting from it except a fading need for chocolate, a lazy drug-induced lethargy, and something so familiar he doesn't immediately realize that it isn't from himself. As he raises his hand to place it on the door handle, he faintly hears it: a tiny part of his song repeating in her soul.

No, it was definitely not a knock-off from another song. It was his. Born of only his mind, for the two of them.

* * *

He will not mention it, Soul decides as he enters the room and shuts the door quietly behind him. The fact that music is there, lurking in her mind surely means it happens a lot. He will not entertain the thought that it's there because he put it there, or because it was some crazy metaphysical act of love or some shit. It was in her head only because he'd been thinking of it constantly, just as he occasionally craves fudge because she has some rather odd girl-instincts.

He sits down in his discarded chair from earlier this morning, slouching back into it and crossing his arms. Maka dozes lightly, with precisely eleven measures of his song murmuring along in her head. He doesn't get it. They can't really read each others thoughts- not without Soul Resonance- so why can they pick up music from each other? Have they become friggen radio stations?

With just music alone, he has probably been adding to his own problems by putting a song stuck in his head stuck in HER head and then hearing it again to make it a damned  _repeating hell_. He scowls. What a wreck. He will need to be careful not to get another crappy Black*Star*Approved song stuck again. They've probably been feeding on each other's problems and adding to them exponentially this entire time. Amplifying.

He sits up with a start. It's true. Just last night when Maka had been panicking,  _he_ had started to panic, which just made everything worse. If something like this happens all the time, what about when the're  _doing their job_? If some shit goes down, and they both start freaking out, he would be useless. She would be a sitting duck and he wouldn't be able to take the blow for her.

"Soul? What's the matter?"

He's staring at her but he's too involved in his current train of thought to stop. He knows he's over thinking it, but the fear is winning. They need to stop spending so much time together, it could cost her her life. Their link could become a handicap. They need to-

"Stop it. I don't know what you're thinking, but stop it," she says.

"That's exactly what we need to do," he says, standing. He's prepared to flee- to end this. He's ashamed, but knows she can feel his fear and doesn't attempt to mask it. It will explain much more than any words he could use. He can already feel her reacting to his dread; it will only be moments before her mirrored fear strengthens his. But then, he feels something in her  _shift_  that he doesn't expect.

She says to him, or more like demands of him, "I like Soul's music."

...What? Was that just a lucky, drugged up shot in the dark? He stands at her bedside, dumbfounded. He's rooted. Maka's eyes do not waver. Her side of the bond does not waver. If anything, both strengthen, latching to him in ways he can not define.

"I heard it when you came in, but it stopped." She demands his attention, even though her words are slightly sluggish. "Don't run away. It's okay to open yourself with me. We trust each other, don't we?"

She  _needs_  to understand, even if he can't say it correctly. "Maybe too much. If we get caught up in something it just gets.. amplified. If something bad happens and I can't- hey wait! What..? You can't just..! Don't get up, you idiot!"

She struggles to sit up and hooks her legs over the edge of the bed away from him. Her arms shake under her weight as she pushes herself to a standing position, weak from staying in bed all day. He accidentally gets an eyeful from what the hospital gown exposes. He can already tell her knees will buckle and he flies around to the other side to help her balance. Arm around her back and free hand holding hers to keep her steady, she looks to him and smiles.

"See?" She says, simply. It pisses him off.

"See what? That you're certifiable?" he growls at her.

He hadn't seen the Makachop coming. It wasn't her usual force without a book, but it still stung.

She sounds out of breath as she speaks. "I acknowledge your fears. I care about you too. But as I see it, the only way I'll ever get hurt is when you're not around to help me," she said as she leans into his side, smiling as he reflexively adjusts his center of gravity. He doesn't know what to say. As her words crash into his ears, their link tightens. It feels only a jump away from Soul Resonance, and yet the flavor of it feels completely different in this significantly less life-threatening moment. "Likewise, I don't ever want you so far from me where I can't reach to smack you."

Maka arches up a little, using Soul's arm as leverage, and kisses him softly on the cheek. It burns his fears away.

"I promise not to let you down again," she says, solemnly.

He tries to sound irritated as he says, "Shut up. That's what I should be saying."


	4. Booksmart Devil

**Maka**

**  
**

It's a terrible time for a stomach to growl, so both of theirs do. It had been nearly a whole day since their last meal, after all. Soul had had only water while watching over Maka, and Maka had been more or less asleep the entire time. Regarding the stomach gurgling, neither blushes, though they feel a mutual form of embarrassment between them.

Soul gingerly leads her to her private toilet so she can take care of things and then leaves the room to find something to eat for the both of them. She's relived to find her period has ended. As she's walking back to her bed, stretching her legs, her doctor comes in to see if she is awake and performs a small checkup. He writes her a prescription for more painkillers, and tells her she is free to leave whenever she feels able.

Her excitement is slowly burning up her lethargy. She's excited over a lot of things: she kissed Soul (in the most platonic and cheesy way imaginable), she gets to go home and sleep in her own bed, _she kissed Soul_ , and she gets a week off from physical activities. Pleased to have her blood feel less sluggish, she decides to change back into her clothes. She makes plans of which books to read and magazines to borrow from Blair during her recuperation as she opens up a paper sack that has her belongings. Her stomach drops to her toes. She dimly recalls arriving at the hospital in her pajamas, of which include a pair of soft cotton capris and Soul's favorite shirt. The latter of which she will be murdered over, horribly and painfully.

Ah well, he'd already seen in it, so too late to turn back. She would beg for mercy and placate him with nigiri sushi. Though why hadn't he gone home and brought her some normal clothes? Soul had probably stayed with her all night and day. That stubborn over-protective albino mutt needs to grow some practicality. She grumbles, though secretly pleased, as she sits on the edge of the bed and hauls the hospital gown over her head. The movement stretches her surgery wounds and she freezes with the garment still over her face. She's caught. Her good mood instantly dissolves. Her arms are stuck in the sleeves while her hair is tangled up with the ties. She tries to wriggle out of it but the pain stops her short.

It's a terrible time for Soul to walk back in with a tray full of fruits and sandwiches, so he does. He has the grace to shut the door behind him so no one else can accidentally see her, set the tray on a table with a clatter  _and_  face away- if his voice reverberating off of all the walls was any indication- while swearing at her loudly to at least 'lock the friggen' door when getting naked, god damn it.'

"Soul. Help me," she grits out. How much more sitting duck could she possibly be? She was clad only in panties, her arms were up above her, she can't see for the cloth blocking her vision, and she felt like she was being repeatedly stabbed. Though his voice is not facing directly at her, his skepticism is loud and clear.

"Haahh?"  
"Don't. Hahh me. I'm stuck. And. It hurts."

She has to breathe carefully between words, for any more expanding or contracting makes her bite back tears. She wants to curl up and die in the following silence. She can feel his torn emotions: Wanting to help because she's in pain, definitely not wanting to help because her (pathetic excuses for) tits are out and about. The footsteps slowly shuffling around and coming closer to her create nervous electric waves up and down her spine. She is quietly horrified at her state of helplessness. She has to be steel. She has to feel nothing.

Trying to feel nothing doesn't do shit when being annihilated by embarrassment. She shudders a little when she feels his legs brush her knees, and when his fingers graze her arms at the elbows. She yelps as he helps to lift and nudge the gown off her.

"Don't complain, you totally did this to yourself," he mumbles. Her arms are finally free and she can see, though the ties on the gown are still stuck in her hair at the nape. She grimaces, very very slowly lowering her arms while staring intently at his chest, and only his chest. She can finally breathe evenly, though she doesn't in her nervousness. She crosses her arms over herself modestly while he gently tilts her head down so he can better access the nape of her neck where the tangle is. His fingers are light and feel on fire wherever they slide along her neck and scalp, and she shivers.

He is angry. She gets wave upon wave of anger from him, and though she can understand why he might be a little bit angry at her for already forgetting she's not in top form, Maka can't justify the sheer amount he is feeling. Until, that is, she realizes that the tilted point of view she has gives her a VIP close-up of a straining problem in the front of his jeans. He must feel her shock, as her breath hitches and her eyes slam shut, because he warns her quietly, "You. See. Nothing."

"...See what?" She asks, shakily.

"Good answer," he growls, freeing her from the gown completely. He moves away to her bag of clothing as she stares a hole into the linoleum floor. Awkwardness for awkwardness, she morbidly thinks.  _Her bare chest for his boner_. She must not think about the connotations. She must not assume more than the present facts: She is a practically nude female, and he is a heterosexual male. He comes back into her line of vision and merely says "Arms."

She looks up at him before she can stop herself. Soul is holding his favorite shirt like a matador holding a cape, scrunched up so to easily put her arms and head through in one motion. He has a mild grimace on his face, looking dutifully to his left. His cheeks have the faintest tinge of rose. She is slightly happy at this prospect, but shoves that feeling down, out of reach, while carefully holding her arms out in front of her. They can't go much more than shoulder-height without major discomfort, but it was enough. With sure hands, he maneuvers the sleeves around her wrists and then the collar around her head. Eyes now only on his task, he gently moves the collar around her eyes and ears and nose, even though she  _could_  do it herself. His fingers graze her forehead and behind her ears and along her jaw. He pinches the hem of the shirt and pulls it to her hips, the edges of his thumbs ghosting down her sides, unbearably slowly. His calloused palms slide along her neck and the base of her skull, burning, as he takes her hair and pulls it out from the shirt.

She feels like a child when he crouches down before her, with her sleep pants in his larger hands, holding them open for her to step into. She tries very hard not to worry about the logistics of an erection in such a confined space in that position, and places a hand on either shoulder for balance. After she steps into each pant leg, he slowly stands, with her hands rising with him. He slides the waist band up her shins and over her knees. He pulls them further, along her thighs, when he reaches his full height and directs his gaze over her shoulder.

Though she tries everything to not notice his arousal and the feelings he's accidentally letting slip through their bond, she can't hide her body's reaction and her heart's racing. The bond is faintly stretching, or flexing, or expanding around her (or in her), giving her a ghost of a taste of what might be offered. Her fingers on his shoulders twitch as she itches to break the gates that hold back the feelings he's desperately hiding. As she feels this need in herself, a tiny, almost unnoticed mirror of it echoes from him while he simultaneously locks down further in attempt to not allow similar, taunting samples of his secrets out.

She becomes aware of their breathing. Hers is shallow and chopped. His is controlled and even, though when she feels his breath rushing out of him and onto her neck, it burns, just as the back of his hands do as he shifts her capris to fit her properly. The warmth accentuates his anger, or embarrassment, or  _restraint_. Though they both know she could do it herself once the garment is close enough to her own hands, he continues to pull the cotton pajamas up to her hips. He's careful with her stitches, feeling with a light touch of his right hand where the wrappings are and holding the waistband out of the way while his left hand pulls up behind her. His arm sears her side as a single thumbnail edges along her panties and her spine.

When he is finished, tying the drawstring soberly, his arms rest at his sides. She belatedly realizes her hands are still on his shoulders. She nervously removes them, her face alight.

"Ah.. Thank you. I feel kind of.. silly."  
"...Be more careful."  
"Mm."

A multitude of feelings cross her when he moves from her and sits on the opposite edge of the bed, facing away.


	5. Tender

**Soul**

**  
**

Now he's done it. Not cool at all. His world is rocked by the fact that being too horny could ever be a bad thing. Black Star would never believe him. Well, it was  _entirely_  her fault for being utterly insane and changing clothes in an unlocked room that anyone could enter freely.

They had both just felt... something. Right? Maybe. No. Surely not. His feelings for Maka  _probably_  fall a bit further up the spectrum from 'just friends' and even 'Meister and Weapon,' but there's no reason to act on those feelings. If she feels nothing towards him, then she feels nothing. Nothing to cry home to Shinigami about. It will always be easier to keep to himself. He'll still do his job, he'll still be there for her, and she'll still be his technician.

She feels nothing. He wouldn't get even a twinge along the link from her if he pranced around in nothing but a bath towel dancing to porn music. He knows from experience. Baiting her temper was his hobby. She likes looking at 'Boy Candy Kid' anyway, that scrawny fuck. He grudgingly adjusts himself more comfortably in his pants. There are absolutely zero feelings of attraction and/or romantic love towards himself.

She  _felt_  nothing, until exactly one minute and twenty-four seconds ago, in which he had made an ass of himself, may or may not have copped a feel, and is now awaiting the consequences. Even now he couldn't be sure if what he felt from her was attraction at all, as it had felt a lot more like horror, or maybe morbid curiosity  _at best_. Right. Fan-fucking-tastic job, she'll never trust him again, will probably file for a new weapon partner, and-

An apple lands in his lap. He hears a quiet 'itadakimasu' behind him as she munches on a sandwich. This seems too easy. He hadn't even been Makachopped. Is she just going to ignore the whole thing? Had he hallucinated her reaction? Maybe she's poisoned the fruit? Was she completely oblivious and hadn't noticed his  _second_  boner of the day? Had she just not given a shit?

No, she wasn't immune. He had seen her breathing. He had known her heart beating faster, as it still is now. As his still is. His thumbnail digs into the peel of the fruit. He decides to stop thinking about it and to concentrate on eating, mostly for the sake of his overworked (and underworked) penis.

She doesn't completely reject him. He will not look too deeply into it. He will still do his job. He will not flee. If she asks, he'll blame it on the fact that he's a guy, and she was mostly naked. Which was true. He takes a bite of his apple, brooding. They would be walking on eggshells, but he'll take that over being replaced because he cant keep regular blood circulation. He concentrates on his song. He absolutely ignores the idea that, flat as she is, her hips are something that will plague him for many nights until his death.

* * *

Despite skirting many levels of awkwardness, he can't help but crack a laugh when he sees her state of absolute pathetic-ness in her pajamas and his helmet on. She hadn't been wearing shoes when she was brought to the hospital, so she wears little disposable slippers. The bouquet of skullflowers Spirit gave her hangs limply in a hand. She stares back with a grimace on her face. He helps her into his jacket, which is a lot less suggestive this time around, though weeds of possession at the sight of her in his shirt, jacket, and helmet immediately sprout and threaten to grow across the link. He stows away prescription bottles and the jar of ...bits, while she climbs onto the back of his motorcycle. The arms she smoothly winds about his waist don't appear any different. It is only he who has changed, for when the hand not clutching the flowers brushes his scar through his thin shirt, goosebumps raise along his thighs and arms. She hugs him as they ride back to their apartment, her trust in him thrumming as strongly as it always has.

He does not deserve such a meister.

Despite her attitude, the ride home exhausts her, and he nonchalantly offers her his arm up the stairs to the apartment door. Her apparent weakness is still very alienating to him, but he decides to make the most of it because he is determined to not fail her again, and will probably not get another excuse to be this near to her without severe head bruising.

"I feel like a hobo prom queen," she mutters on the way up.

Upon entering the apartment, he is immediately assailed by the smell of milk being left out too long. He groans when he spies a large chocolate moat with brownie chunks and fudge swirls mingling on the floor with the remnants of grocery bags and dented cashew tins. Blair is not to be seen.

"Tadaima," he growls while shutting the door.

Maka laughs, but then stops herself, holding her abdomen. "Uhg, sorry to cause so much trouble."

He hoists her in his arms and takes her over the puddle and into her room while she half-heartedly smacks him with the flowers explaining she can still walk. He sets her down at the foot of her bed and leaves to the kitchen. He brings back water and pills to find her  _already_  missing.

"God damn it, Maka!"

He finds her in the bathroom, leaning on the sink, filling up the cup she uses for mouthwash with water.

"For the flowers," she explains quietly.

He scowls, holding out the glass of water he has that would better serve the long stems. She tries to hide the amount of care she takes to place the skullflowers in their new vase. He takes the filled glass and leaves the bathroom, setting the bouquet on the coffee table. When he returns to her, she's using his toothbrush because she doesn't want to bend down and get hers that is still on the floor. He doesn't splutter, because spluttering is not cool. Soul takes a mental flamethrower to his weeds. He leans on the door frame, lazily glaring at her reflection in the mirror while simultaneously being relieved that the current scene in the bathroom is easily one-hundred and sixty percent less stressful than the last time he had seen it.

After she's  _finally_  in bed and sufficiently drugged, he recruits an army of paper towels. He swipes up three toothpaste-grazed tiles, and begins to grudgingly attack the chocolate holocaust. He doesn't care how much of a hurry he'll be in next time, he is  _going_  to put ice cream in the freezer. After scrubbing the area to his personal tempo, he wipes off the cans of nuts and finds the most absolute gory, violent movie they own. He has some catching up to do.

Unfortunately, Soul can't give his full attention to the movie. He stars at the mini skulls on green stalks. He tests their link every few minutes to make sure she isn't doing anything stupid. He belatedly realizes that they have class tomorrow. Or rather he does, as Maka gets a week off for recuperation. The thought of her alone in the house being all helpless and probably pulling stunts like  _Captain Bra-less and the Hospital Dress Incident_  makes him frown. He'll skip class. He couldn't risk someone walking in to see her tits. Absolutely not.

He sighs, turning off the television, poking the link for good measure. He shuffles over to the parlor grand, running his palms along the surface of the fallboard. She had pinched and saved for six semesters to buy this for him, while he hadn't had the faintest idea about it.

He had come home early from cutting class one day, and found a napkin on the piano bench that simply stated  **'** _to keep you company_ **.'** He had balked at the idea of playing, as it brought up a lot of feelings about his family he would rather avoid, but his hands were already at the keys pounding out majors and minors; his feet working the pedals without his consent. When he finally came to his senses that day, he had found it was evening with Maka sitting on the couch next to him, studying.

He does not deserve such a meister.

He makes sure she is deeply asleep in drowsy pain-killer land before he sits down and starts quietly playing. He fiddles with his song, testing keys and melodies. He writes down ideas on impromptu staff paper. He's sucking the chocolate off a cashew when Blair scares the shit out of him, tapping on the window. He hadn't expected anyone there, as being up on the third story of an apartment building generally gives a guy a sense of safety. He pointedly ignores her, continuing to write.

She finds her way in, doubtless with some witchcraft, and shapeshifts into a cat body, landing lightly on the piano. Her broom stick clatters against the wall. She sniffs his can of cashews.

"Aah? And where the hell have you been?"

Blair mews in false-innocence.

"You were here before I left the night before last, but when I came back you were nowhere to be found."

She swishes her tail, annoyed at his tone. "I've been staying over at Death-Scythe's," she says, smugly. Soul nearly spews out his cashew.

" _Spirit's?_  Geez, don't let Maka hear you say that. Can you at least warn somebody before you take off? I had expected you here."

"Me?" Her tail sensually wraps around the hand holding his pen. He swats it away.

"Yes, you. I had to take her to the hospital," he growls at her. "She probably would have been spared a lot of pain if I hadn't left her here  _by herself_."

Blair's eyes widen and she takes off, jumping off the piano and scrambling towards Maka's bedroom. When she returns, she's on two legs and demanding to know the full story.


	6. Yes I Am

**Maka**

**  
**

She wakes up  _sore._  She feels as if she's done a million sit-ups and has a permanent fist wedged in her left side. However, it doesn't matter how sore she may be, Maka refuses to take more painkillers. She can't let a little pain faze her like before. She will think of it as extra lessons, if she must. She does pour a pill from the antibiotics out into her hand- no sense in endangering herself further.

She cringes her way out of bed and peeks out of her bedroom doorway. It is bright out, the day well on its way to noon. She scans the hallway and strains to hear any sounds of life. She feels a slight pang of abandonment. Maka shakes her head. She should be happy that Soul's actually gone to class, and Blair is probably at work. Maka takes her pill in the bathroom, cupping water into her hands to drink from. It isn't the best flavor in the world. In fact, it may be the worst. She relieves herself, though the act of sitting on and standing from the toilet makes her entire torso throb, and shuffles towards the kitchen to find some food. Patches of sunlight warm the wooden floor beneath her feet.

She glances towards the living room just before entering the kitchen and barely stifles a scream with her hands. Soul hasn't gone to class. He looks  _dead._  His head is on the piano's keys with his arms dangling to the floor. It is only when he snores can she exasperatedly sigh between her fingers. She quietly makes her way over to him and to the instrument taking over half of the space in the living room. She leans against the side of the piano, basking in a strip of sunlight.

Of course he hasn't gone to class. She can still feel the bond between them, defining his presence. It has become so reflexive to feel him that she hadn't thought about it.

He is accompanied by ripped papers, which she now recognizes as the paper bags her prescription bottles had come in, two precise pyramids of stacked cashews, and a pen with its end nearly chewed off. She eyes the nuts sitting on the piano and steals a few. They don't have much of the flavor she is expecting, but she eats them anyway. Munching, she glances more closely at the papers and finds that they are covered with music notes meticulously written on impeccable lines. The fine quality of his writing is at odds with the wrinkly medium it is written on. She wishes she could understand what she sees there, making note to glance at music textbook when she has some free time this week. On one corner of a ripped sheet, she sees a little note scrawled in an absurd amount of feminine cursive which reads:

_I have gone to work,_   
_I will return after midnight._   
_XXOO,_   
_Blair_

Wow. Long shift. Her eyebrow twitches at the sight of a lipstick-imprinted kiss after her signature. Odd. Blair normally comes and goes from the house as she pleases without notice, as any cat would. Maka pops another cashew in her mouth. Now that she isn't drugged up and has a somewhat normal night's rest under the hood, she can reflect on the events of yesterday afternoon.

She does a little internal dance at the thought that maybe her under-developed body could actually  _do_  something to Soul. The question is, was his reaction merely physical? The memories of his gentle fingers on her face, and the care he had taken to prevent her further injury made her heart alternately race and tighten. She feels slightly embarrassed, standing next to him. Their bond had gone somewhat haywire during that moment, and she wonders if that had been one of those 'amplifying' times he'd been trying to explain before. In any case, she had felt  _something_ , and they had shared it.

Maka watches as Soul wakes up on cue, groggy and disoriented. He blinks blearily, frowning. He brings up his hands and rubs them together, then grinds them along his arms and up to his shoulders, trying to work out the stiffness. As he yawns, she feels him prod the bond as he had for too many hours last night, and watches him freeze when he realizes she's standing right next to him. Blood-filled marbles swivel in her direction, mostly hidden under amazing bed hair. (Or is it piano hair?) He blinks owlishly at her. Maka wonders if he has issues about having such girlishly long eyelashes when he's all about being a tough-guy.

"Mornin, sleeping beauty," she says, mouth full. He really does have expressive eyebrows. There's a flicker of irritation at the subject of her greeting through the bond. His eyes flit from her mouth, to the piano, and back again.

"What're you eating," he asks with a droopy sneer. His voice is thick and tinged with dread.

"...Nuts?" She is slightly concerned when he groans and puts his head back down on the keys with a discordant  _plink_. "What, were you saving them?"

"Those used to have chocolate on them," he murmurs to the floor. His shoulders hunch up a little, like he is preparing for a death blow.

She continues chewing, curious. Then slows. Then swallows. Then hobbles away from him, mortified. She passes the end of the piano, where an opened tin of chocolate covered cashews sits, as if pleading its case.  _'You should have noticed me,'_ it screams at her. _'You should see the color of your face!'_ She collapses into the couch, immediately regretting the action for it makes her abdomen protest loudly.

Who eats only the chocolate off of chocolate covered nuts? Who leaves the discarded nuts, after having ... _sucked_  the chocolate off, in plain view of innocent bystanders who might eat them? (In a pyramid?) She knows who, albino  _mutt!_ She rubs her face in her hands. This guy could give Kidd a run for his money in the perfectionist-quirk category.

"Don't put random things in your mouth, idiot."

And the retardation category with Black*Star. She looks up between her palms and finds him offering water. Aw, he's come to wash away the indirect kiss. Lick? Sucking fantasies aside, was it silly to worry if she's hurt his feelings by being slightly mortified by eating something he had effectively slobbered all over? She looks at him and tilts her head sideways, scrutinizing. He has piano-face. Keys are clearly indented on his forehead and left cheek. It suits the clumps of hair sticking up in odd angles. She bursts out laughing, despite the pain in her stomach. The both of them are hopeless.

"Haaah? What the hell?"

She can only point to her own face and then his in her mirth as she alternately snorts and groans. He self-consciously puts a hand to the side of his scowling face and politely tells her to 'fuck off' while still holding a glass of water out for her.

* * *

Maka doesn't bring up the fact that he hasn't gone to class. She'll save that lecture for later, for it would be absolutely futile. She has to argue with him to just leave to get some take-away for lunch, because he balks at the idea of leaving her by herself for a mere ten minutes.

"Holy crap, the Chinese place is just down the street!"  
"We have perfectly good cashews right here."  
"My foot! When did you become the voice of reason? Quit being a wuss and go get some lunch!"  
"Wuss?! Who the hell do you think you're- hey! No! That rather large and heavy-looking dictionary need  **not**  interfere with this discussion!"  
"It's going to interfere with your _brainwaves_  if you don't pick up the pot-stickers I just painstakingly ordered for your brainless, undeserving  **ass!"**

While he's gone, she tries to re-learn how to take a bath. Learning from previous mistakes, Maka slips her arms inside the shirt from the sleeves before slowly worming the collar over her head. She isn't supposed to get her stitches wet, so she fills the bathroom sink and rubs herself down with a soap and rag, carefully avoiding the tender area. She finds the long-handled brush Soul uses to scrub his back, and uses it to wash her legs so she doesn't have to bend too much. Through with her body, Maka tests her soreness by making scrubbing motions in her hair with her hands, and yelps. Using her left arm stretches her torso enough that the throbbing takes her breath away. The thought of washing her hair with just one hand is daunting, but she's done more challenging things.

Soul has impeccable timing, or perhaps she has the worst luck. Not two breaths after her previous pained outburst, he charges into the bathroom, privacy completely ignored, just as she's pouring shampoo into her right hand.

Maka shrieks, though cuts her voice short due to the strain on her core. He's standing next to her towel, which she isn't about to go anywhere near, so she attempts to protect her modesty by scrambling around to the far side of the sink though she knows it hides absolutely nothing. Her palm, slick with soap, can't keep a firm connection to the porcelain and slips, knocking over the bottle of shampoo. It falls to the floor with a clatter and her feet tangle with it. She trips, the moment in which she loses her footing a massive slow-motion effort to prepare herself physically and mentally for the pain waiting for her on the floor.

Soul makes to catch her, cursing inelegantly. He slides on spilled shampoo, but regains his footing, possibly grabbing every place never meant to be grabbed on her body before tucking her right side against him. There is a small moment of uncertainty as they both half-expect a fall to still occur.

"Seriously? I'm gone for eight-and-a-half  _fucking_  minutes and your  _tits are already out_. God Damn!"

Tits in question are being smooshed under his arm. She is equal parts horrified, relieved, and pissed.

"I beg your pardon? Are you my father!  _Were you timing yourself?"_ She squirms in his hold, elbowing him every chance she has while trying to get her right arm free. His sneakers squeal on the slippery tiles. It makes her even angrier when she realizes that no matter how much she writhes and he wrangles her, he still makes the (probably subconscious, which makes her even more irate) effort to not strain her injury. "You nosy, obsessive-compulsive, overprotective, albino SHARKBEAR!" She realizes that her squirming is causing more harm than good, both for her stitches and her modesty. "And wash your mouth, " she gripes, finally getting her arm free and smashing her soap covered hand over his snarling lips. "You. Have. Such. Foul _! Language!_ And do you mind-  **I'm kinda naked here**!" To her horror, he bites her hand, shark teeth gnawing her knuckles and growling. He spits out her hand when she squeals and tries to pull it away. He finally lets her go, sliding around with enraged sputtering noises, trying to spew the taste from his mouth.

"Been there-" spit, "-done that," raspberry, " **idiot!** " he roars, throwing her towel at her. He goes to the sink, gargling water obnoxiously. She blushes despite herself. Insult on top of injury, he had seen practically everything  _already_  the afternoon before. Maka turns away from him while wrapping herself, noting the red indents on her hand and vowing to create a fault-line in his skull with a textbook; the nice, big, fat, music textbook that she had planned on checking out this week _to_ _help her understand his hobbies in her poor judgement._

__

* * *

 

After a lot more arguing, she finds herself straddling a low stool, her back to the sink, looking at the ceiling. His face is schooled into a mask of complete boredom, unearthly eyes boring into her hairline. She can't hide the goosebumps adorning every inch of her that isn't covered by terrycloth, and it irritates her. She has a death-grip on her towel while he lathers soap into her hair, knobby knuckles and fingertips massaging her scalp.

"I can do it myself."  
"Don't care."  
"You should learn how to knock."  
"Will, when you stop doing stupid things."  
"I hope you like the taste of soap- I'll be using it next time I make dinner."  
"Please? Always thought your chicken parmigiana needed more  _Zest_."

Maka sighs, defeated. She's grumpy, in pain, and they're sending each other so many mixed signals that it's easier to just ignore the bond and concentrate on not saying anything at all. She should probably just relax anyway- all the yelling and anxiety and wrestling had started to take its toll on her abdomen. The fist that had been merely lodged in her side earlier was now twisting and making taffy with her innards. He cradles the base of her skull while rinsing her hair under the faucet. His fingers are gentle but his arms are tense. Every once in awhile his eyebrows escape the noncommittal mask and crinkle in irritation, as if  _she_  is the one who is out of hand!

When he is finished, he drapes a towel over her head, scrubbing not-quite-gently. It feels as if he's saying 'stupid, stupid, stupid' with every rub. When he stops and pulls the towel away from her, she finds him crouching in front of the chair at eye-level. Between the matted and damp strands in her face, he looks chronically annoyed, but the faint tint to his cheeks can't be denied.

Feeling like a weakling irritated her; they weren't equals this way. If he is going to touch her and see her as a naked, helpless princess all the time, then she's going to have to get equal footing. Plus, she wants to change into her clothes in  _peace._ She'd already done it to him once before- she only needed to put it in a different place this time. She grasps the edge of the stool to pull herself forward, knowing that the action would only further anger her soreness. She is angry that her first legitimate kiss will only be a sneaky, shocking, means to an end, and kisses him 'not-quite-gently.' The resulting force makes him drop the towel and fling his hands out to cling to the stool's legs in effort to not lose balance. When she pulls back, she studies the aftershock. Her lips appear to be an effective tranquilizer. One blink. Two. His girl-lashed eyes are on hers, eyebrows glued to the ceiling.

It takes everything in her power to not chop him when he numbly says, "Don't put random things in your mouth, idiot."

She doesn't mask the flare of anger while she grits between her teeth, "You taste like soap. Now get out."


	7. Come to Me

**Soul**

**  
**

"And don't think I wont kick your ass later!"

The bathroom door slams behind him, catching his heels. Soul stumbles, grimacing.

' _Don't put random things in your mouth, idiot_ '? He'll admit it that it was a totally cool reaction to such an incident, but he is still mortified somewhere in the back of his mind. He numbly retrieves the Chinese take-out he had haphazardly left on the counter in his earlier rush-

Panic, not rush. He has to be truthful here. The scenario had been just a touch too similar to the other night. Plastic bags in hand, shutting the door, feeling her shock and hearing her yelp, flying to the bathroom...

He rubs his face with a hand, and runs his fingers through his hair as he watches take-out containers spin in the microwave. Her irritation flares grandly from the bathroom. He is losing his cool. He needs to visit Black*Star and repent for his lapse of sanity later. He recites his cool mantra as he takes the food to the living room.

_"I-am-cool-and-do-not-give-a-shiiiiiiit~"_

Too bad he really does. He collapses into the sofa. He snaps his chopsticks apart and steals a dumpling. His reflexive retort aside, what the hell had  _that_  been about? Soul had been pretty positive she had been angry at him during his entire intrusion of her privacy while he'd awaited to become the next Grand Canyon via bathroom-sink-to-skull. Instead, albeit rather bitterly, Maka had  _smacked him one on the lips._ He doesn't know what to make of it.

He is slightly miffed when he finds the first bite of his dumpling still tastes like shampoo.

He knows what he  _wants_ to make of it, but that isn't the point. Neither is the point anything related to how he still feels her lips on him, despite how angrily smashed they had been, or how their teeth had clacked together in her force, and certainly not how he finds her most attractive when she's fierce and her eyes flash.

Second dumpling nearing his abused mouth, he feels a jolt scrape against their link, and hears a loud hiss from down the hallway. He's at the bathroom in a flash, but it's empty. He hurries to her room, finds the door shut. Soul is about to reach towards the knob when she threatens him.

 **"DON'T."**  
"Maka...," he growls at her, itching to attend.  
"I got this, okay? Go... go start a movie or something. I'll be out in a minute."

Ha! Like he would fall for the semi-polite tact. She's lying. She's lying and in pain and gritting her words out between clenched teeth. He reaches for the doorknob once more.

**"If you open that door, I will** _**end** _ **you."**

He spews expletives all the way back to the living room. One minute she allows him to help her complacently, the next she shoves soap into his mouth and  _kisses him_ , the next she completely refuses his assistance. The HELL! If this is a prequel to menopause, he might reconsider that seppuku thing. Stubborn! She is too damn stubborn. He is too damn clingy. Soul sinks into the couch, shoving a dumpling in his mouth. His thumb mercilessly smashes remote control buttons as he flips through DVD menus. He chants with mouth full,  _"I-am-cool-and-do-not-give-a-shiiiiit~"_

He nearly chokes when Maka comes around the other side of the couch. She's dressed in one of his long button downs (does she not have her own damn clothes?), and (he hopes, for the shirt came down just past her crotch), a pair of underwear. Underwear at which he must make a massive effort to keep blood in his brain, for it to neither travel southernly nor nasally.

Maka's underwear ties at the sides. He can see the little strings dangling past the hem of his shirt. Such fabled 'easy access' panties in Maka's possession makes him doubt the legitimacy of reality.

As she gingerly begins to lower herself to the couch, she swats away his hand he reflexively has out to aid her.

"Don't even think about it."

Fine. Not think about helping her? Fine. He'll think about her thighs instead. Maka, in her stubbornness, appears not to be able to graduate from putting on her own pants and/or usual underwear. He'll think about his shirt that she's stolen from him, how her still damp hair bleeds water into it, and how it makes her nipples stand at attention. Surely this is torture. Surely she's doing this on purpose. No one is  _this_  independent- but the link is a careful, 'nothing interesting here' neutral. No signs of mischief. No signs of bait.

She sits down next to him without his assistance, and he grudgingly offers her a take-out container of fried rice. She accepts it, stiffly. He starts up the movie he had tried to watch the night before. He is primitively pleased as it opens up with someone getting his head sliced off. It interprets his frustration accurately.

He glances at his meister after a small while. Maka's eyes are on the movie, but they don't appear to be paying attention. The knuckles gripping the take-out container are white, nearly matching the cardboard. Her legs are clenched together, toes curling on the floor. Pain and discomfort stutter through the link as her restraint on her feelings begins to fail. The blood-curdling screams from the television now annoy him, as they seem to be interpreting her instead.

"You're acting strangely," he murmurs quietly. She doesn't hear him, or doesn't notice. Her eyes look dull and glazed. Her eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. He mutes the movie. She doesn't notice it immediately. After exactly seven seconds of silence, Maka blinks, surprised to find the current situation.

"You're not eating."

Mechanically, she puts a bit of rice to her lips. The faint tremors in her arm and hand wobble the chopsticks and make it difficult. Soul leans towards her, scowling. Her eyes determinedly meet his, her face tense. She swallows.

"You're obviously hurting. Your shoulders-" he lightly prods her right with a finger, "-are like steel."

"M'fine," she insists.

He studies her face. There are lines of tension around her eyes. Her breathing looks labored.

"You're hiding things from me," he drawls, "and poorly." When she breaks eye contact with him, his suspicions are confirmed. He moves to be in her line of vision. "You deny my help when you know I will easily give it. You steal my clothes and sit next to me without pants, in suggestive under-"

"They were easier to put on!" Her face flushes in the way that it  _should_  have when she had first come out in that ensamble.

"I can't follow your logic. You're not eating when you should be starving. You're watching a gory movie with me and not even squealing at the squidgey parts.  _You kiss me when you want to get rid of me._ "

At her silence, he accuses quietly, "You haven't even taken  _any_  painkillers, have you?"

"I don't want any," she mutters.

Just as Soul is about to raise hell, she suddenly gets a twisted look on her face. When she realizes what is wrong, she gives him a horrified stare.

"I have to-," face contortion, "sneeze-"

Irritated at this interruption, he glances around for something for her to hang on to. Sneezing after surgery is possibly the worst self-induced torture ever conceived- he knew first hand. He looks behind him and finds a couch pillow and exchanges it for her rice container with a move worthy of Indiana Jones. She grips it like a lifeline and lets her sneeze loose, wracking her body. Maka folds in on herself, chest to pillow to thighs, the gigantic rolling boulder of her sneeze knocking the breath out of her. The link practically stings him with her bodily suffering.

When she finally takes in a shuddering breath, he shoves himself away from her and the couch with exasperation. He stomps off to her bedroom. Stubborn! He doesn't know why she can't just rely on him, as a meister should. He doesn't know what she has in her head that makes her think she can just flip the bird to everything sane and logical. He'll force some sense into her, he decides, finding the bottle of painkillers and rationing out a pill. He thunders to the kitchen, running tap water into a glass. How many of these must he fill before she can rely on him? How much water must he offer for her to stop being _stupid?_

When he arrives back in the living room, Maka has returned to a sitting position with a death grip on the pillow. She breathes purposefully, trying to recover or trying to ignore her pain. He juggles the pill and glass with one hand as he pulls the pillow from her with the other. He restrains the urge to simply yank it away and go demon-scythe all over it into tiny insignificant bits.

He is cool, and he will not give a shit. He will take it with a dose of apathy.

He stands before her, a leg outside each of her bare ones, and bows over her, holding her chin in his hands to look up at him. He raises his right hand, indicating the medication. "You're going to eat this," he threatens, glowering down at her.

"I don't want it," she grits out.

"Are you being stubborn just for the  _sake_  of it?"  
"What? I just don't want to be-"

"Shaddup," he sneers, shoving the pill in her mouth, the water glass pressing against her nose and cheek. He seals over her mouth with his left hand. His larger palm could easily cover most of her face, so he has no problem gripping her mouth shut. He casually straddles her thighs, keeping the glass of water away from her while she fiercely struggles against him. Unfortunately for her, she only fights back for less than five seconds before the strain makes her eyelids flutter in pain. The fists she had beaten his chest with now attempt to claw at the arm that keeps her shut up. He calmly takes a sip of water until she settles down enough to merely glare at him and possibly cut off the circulation to his arm. He feels the pill clack against her teeth, her tongue keeping it away from her throat.

Many lines of common sense and personal space are about to be crossed, he muses. He takes another sip of water, coolly. "You know, I was just gonna pour this down your face, but you're so damn difficult." She stares bullets into his eyes. "I realized though- if you get to kiss me for the wrong reasons, it should only be fair I get the same privileges, right?" He drinks again, gauging her reaction. The link is buzzing and chattering with anxiety. Maka's eyes have reached dinner-plate-horror size, but the flush in her cheeks warms his palm. The sleeves pooling at her elbows expose goosebumps on her forearms.

He takes another sip of water, but doesn't swallow. He lazily leans back and sets the glass down on the coffee table, next to its twin that contains flowers. Soul leans over her, catching her gaze. He tilts her head up with his free hand and replaces the one sealing her lips with his own, pouring water into her. She makes a meek attempt at shoving the pill into  _his_  mouth with her tongue, but she's embarrassed when his blocks it and slides along hers, and gravity is on his side. The fingers still digging into his arm alternately clutch and relax, unsure of what to do with themselves. The water is messy, and it dribbles down the side of her chin, down his hand and arm and runs off his elbow, soaking a leg of his jeans. There is a moment when she almost chokes, but she swallows everything.

Soul only then allows her face freedom, moving his hands and face away, allowing her to move the arm her nails are painfully attached to. She turns her face away from him, her expression contorting freely between and shock and confusion. Despite his blood roaring in his ears and through his veins, he gently swipes away what he spilled off her chin. He tries to smooth out the crinkled lines between her eyebrows with the pad of a thumb, but the effort is futile. Her heart thunders, and the flush in her face reaches down her neck where the collar is open and exposed.

He sighs, resting his free arm on the back of the couch, putting his forehead in the crook of her neck. She tenses at the touch. He feels the Makachop urge coming, and doesn't flinch when she releases his arm and bashes him with a fist because there isn't a book nearby. His eyes sting as he sinks further into her, skull throbbing.

It takes a few moments and a lot of groaning on his part, but she finally relaxes. She softly thunks her head on his shoulder, mirroring him.

"What happened to not putting random things in my mouth?"

He scoffs. Her hair is cold against ear and neck, its dampness seeping into his shirt. "I don't like forcing things on you... but I just don't understand you sometimes."

There is a small silence. She absently rubs the marks she's left in his arm resting in their laps.

"I thought I could handle it," she admits tiredly, her muffled voice thrumming along his bones.

"Hah? Why would you want to handle avoidable pain?"  
"So I won't be afraid next time."

The link is awash in feelings he can't define. He pulls away from her, confused, so he can see her face. He realizes it hadn't been just her damp hair that had been slowly soaking his shirt.

"So we won't panic next time," she says, smiling sheepishly through tears. "So I won't worry Soul next time."

It figures she really  _would_  be independent enough to try to take matters into her own hands, like trying to take on things by herself, and trying to train herself to better serve  _him_ , the weapon. The weapon whose panic at losing his meister had started this mess.

"You don't... You can just-," he sighs, pulling her to him. "You're retarded. We're partners," he says, lost. He wants to say a million other things but he doesn't know what, much less how. "And stop crying." Please, because he doesn't know what to do with himself.

"I can't...the relief is too much," she half-laughs. "Those pills work well."

He drags his fingers through her damp hair and holds her closer. "That's the point, idiot. You should let them do their job more often."

"'Kay."

Their link sings with an uncertain, but synchronized pulse.

"I'm hungry," she pathetically mumbles in his chest.


	8. Let Go

**Maka**

**  
**

She dreams of murky voices and the sounds of drawn steel. She doesn't want to  _deal_  with work right now, leaving the sounds in the fog and sliding her way through unfinished business. Maka is irritated to find lipstick prints all over everything- the windows, the floor, the doorknobs, all the glassware, on the collar of her father's blazer, on the  _piano_ \- so she tries to wipe them off with the sleeves of her shirt. She realizes it's Soul's shirt and decides to keep the fabric far away from Blair's lip-residue. She attempts to swipe the color off the piano with her palms, but it merely smears in saturated streaks.

Looking closely at the surface of the instrument, she thinks she sees something in the glossy shine. It ripples like water and she falls into the piano, melting, sliding along strings and leaking out the pedals. She bubbles, dripping between the cracks of the hardwood floor until Soul's hands come and clean her up, armed with chocolate sponges. He wrings her out into a mug, filled with water. It is so comfortable here, warm and calming. She melds herself into the warmth, enveloping herself in it, letting it take her through thicker, heated fog.

She allows herself the taunting idea of how wonderful it would have been in that hospital room if he had continued to run his finger up her spine and one-handedly palm her skull in knobby knuckles and agile fingertips and drown her in frenzied, endearing, desperate, resonating melody.

She searches for that song, clambering into the mist, but only grasps the tail end of the very idea. Its harmonies slip through her fingers, dribbling down, making oil-slicked rainbow puddles wherever her feet go. She trudges on miles and miles of some kind of fluff- like the kinds she finds inside of stuffed animals, and worries about falling into a quicksand pit of cotton. As if sealing her own fate, she is suddenly jerked forward, because there's a buzzing, a wrong answer, an alarm-

Her eyes open. She's frantic for a moment, thinking she is falling, but she's in bed, and Soul is griping from the hallway.

"I'm coming, shut the hell up already!"

The doorbell buzzes again, making her cringe. Maka rubs her eyes with dull, rubbery hands. She pulls the palms from her face, half-expecting to find them covered in witchy lipstick. She blinks slowly. She can't seem to shake all the fog from her head.

As her body wakes, the soreness in her side prods her with accelerating gusto. She takes a peek at the wrappings, sees angry yellow and green bruises sneaking out from under the gauze. Maka thinks she may feel even worse than she had yesterday- though the pain seems to be more centralized at the incision, for which she feels grateful. She stretches her arms into the air with only minor discomfort and large levels of satisfaction. All bodily health aside, she's more interested in who is at the front door, how she got into her own bed, and how she has on pants.

She blushes and carefully collects thoughts of certain moments of the past few days involving her various states of undress in Soul's presence. She clutches the memories of his crazy, abusive thoughtfulness, the things he doesn't say but merely  _does_. She takes all those things and holds them close to her, but shoves them far into the dark when she feels Soul prod their bond a second before he growls at her through her shut door, "Your annoying friends are here."

"They're your friends too, stupid," she calls out to him, finding her voice dry and scratchy. He opens the door a crack and a burning sphere glares at her.

"They're not my friends before seven in the morning," he retorts, opening the door wider, sliding in and leaning against it, shutting it behind him. He looks disgruntled and worried. "Your father is also here. Again."

That explains a lot. She takes a gulp of water from the glass that had been loyally left at her bedside. Wait, "Again?"

Soul's mouth contorts into a grim frown. "You don't remember?" His eyes shift, as if he is looking through the door. " ...Crap. You won't like what's been done to the couch."

She stares at the glass in her hands. Was she still asleep? Sighing, she places the water back on the night stand. Maka puts her fingertips to her temples, rubbing almost painfully. Now that she thinks about it, she half-recalls the sounds of steel clashing together. She can only imagine the state of their one piece of comfortable living room furniture.

"Don't look at me like that. I didn't even  _start_ it this time," he drawls in defense. She sighs again, flipping the covers away from her and hooking her legs over the bed. She's slightly surprised that he isn't there to immediately assist her, but finds out why as he flicks the doorknob lock to the sound of dress shoes stomping closer to her door. She gives Soul an incredulous look while hobbling towards the door.

"You're hiding from my father?"

"Not really, everyone else is here to drag me to class."

"MAKAAAA! Let your Papa in! That  **beast**  is in there, isn't it?"

Despite her father alternating between pitiful cries and aggressive fist-beats on the door, she's annoyed to find that she is still absolutely aware of Soul's body in relation to hers. She notices every slight flicker of his protective eyes on her frame, the miniscule changes in his posture as she approaches, the precise arrangement of his fingers firmly holding the doorknob and how it mirrors his end of the bond, ever steadying her, bracing for impact. Being this close to him was like being too close to a bonfire, the flames licking at her face and sparks stinging her skin, but always keeping the cold at bay.

She's not sure for what reasons anymore she must ignore these sensations, why she must deny them if all signs point to his reciprocation, but only knows that she has other things to take care of at the moment.

"Well you should probably  _go_  to class- you can pick up the assignments I'll miss."

"Haah? No way, don't wanna."

"I will save you, my precious daughter!"

"And take notes for me. Good ones this time, not your lame non-committal crap. PAPA. ONE SCRATCH ON THE DOOR AND I'LL NEVER SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN!"

"Like hell, ask Ox-face for that shit, and totally not leaving you here by yourself-"

"But princess, he'll take advantage of your incapacitated, defenseless body-"

With a very unladylike howl, Maka slaps Soul's hand away, unlocks the door, swings it open in her weapon's face, stomps on the other weapon's toes, and leaves the two groaning scythes behind her to greet the only  _normal_ people she knows in the universe. She shuffles into Tsubaki's waiting arms, whimpering. "Please- hide me in a backpack or something,  _I wanna go to school._ "

"There, there," Tsubaki coos. Liz gently pats her head and Patti guffaws. Maka dimly hears the sounds of Kid being smothered in Blair's breasts. She assumes that it is Black*Star energetically snoring from the couch.

 **The couch.** The couch, she sees by craning her neck from Tsubaki's arms, has a clean slice midway down the back. A small, scattered avalanche of fluff- that mysteriously reminds her of hidden pits of stuffing- adorns the surrounding pillows and the floor, disturbed by the snores of Tsubaki's meister. She tries to contain her irritation, though she knows Soul can feel it from down the hallway and everyone else can see it bursting from her face. Maka resolves never to sleep again, because clearly the rest of the world can't continue to exist sanely without her for a few hours.

* * *

She stands off to the side, leaning on the piano (which is sparkling-clean), while movers bring in her new couch through the front door; courtesy of Shinigami-sama, who writes off any purchases dealing with his overprotective demon weapon as 'work expenses.' Spirit himself is making a large and unneeded fuss over any scratches on the walls and wood floor. He uses too much body language, waving his arms about and waggling his fingers. Annoyed, Maka drags her father by the tie to the sidelines.

"Shouldn't you be teaching right now?"

Spirit pouts, straightening his tie and then crossing his arms over his chest. "Stein is teaching today." He makes to lean on the piano, mirroring her, but she smacks him away.

Maka has never come to a conclusion on the debate of which Shibusen teacher is the lesser evil. It's a toss-up between smelling formaldehyde all day or watching her father's gaze never make it further north than Patti's cleavage.

Spirit makes generic whining noises about her sharing an apartment with The Beast, and her physical condition, and how she looks so much like Mama. She tunes him out, going to the kitchen to make a sandwich and take some medication. He follows her like a puppy, never ceasing his yapping, so she hands him her sandwich to shut his face and makes another for herself. He praises her for her chef's abilities, practically weeping in joy, though it's just some turkey on wheat.

She chews thoughtfully as she watches the movers try to maneuver the new couch into position while cat-bodied Blair nonchalantly tangles in their feet. She decides to humor her father. She asks him to bring back a book from the library for her, one about reading sheet music. He grovels and promises that he won't let her down. Maka allows him a hug that uncomfortably squeezes her pained abdomen, but she doesn't complain.

After the couch is finally in place and the workers leave, she requires Blair's assistance in wrangling her father and getting him out the door, which mostly involves a lot of mammary-gland distractions. While Blair lures her father down the flights of stairs, his giggling echoing up the stairwell, Maka absently sucks at bread stuck between her teeth as she admires the new couch.

She furrows her brows. How unfortunate that the couch on which Soul had given his first... 'kiss' to her should be immediately mutilated. What had happened while she was asleep? She recalls a moment involving a pill, some water, some shark teeth, and a tongue that she mentally glazes over and doesn't think of directly, and becoming hungry and eating way too much Chinese food. Maka assumes she passes out after that, because she doesn't remember anything else beyond that until she found herself in her own bed this morning.

The witch walks back into the apartment after having escorted Spirit outside. She gives Maka a sheepish look while transforming into her cat body and says, "This is all Bu-tan's fault. I was at work and Death Scythe came in and I said a few things that I shouldn't have-"

"Wait, what? What's this about?"

The cat made her way to a wavy patch of sunlight by the window. "I said something like 'If you have time to come to ChupaCabra's, then make some time to see your little girl,' and he sorta took it literally..."

Maka only marginally bristles at the idea of her father's endless flirting, as she wasn't really surprised. "So, I'm assuming Soul and I were still on the couch when he came in?"

"Bu-tan tried to stop him, because what did he want to do that late at night anyway? But he saw you and Soul and went all spikey-bladey, and went for little-scythe's head-"

" **WHAT.** "

"But Soul is a good boy and protected you with his sharp-arm, like a reflex or something cuz he wasn't really quite awake yet, and that kinda stopped Death Scythe in his tracks, I guess."

"Though not soon enough to save the couch," Maka deadpanned. And  _she let him hug her_  a few minutes ago! That idiot father! "It's not really your fault, Blair. Thanks for trying to help me out."

The cat morosely licks her paw, unconvinced.

"I'm serious. I don't think Papa is ever going to change how he feels about my partner, so I'm going to enjoy this new couch. Come on, I'll pour you some cream. Won't tell a Soul."

* * *

"Even barring common knowledge about beds, we have this fu-...friggen brand new sofa five feet from you, and you sleep on the floor."

She hears jagged notes and stuttering, agitated melodies. Maka cracks an eye open and is face to face with sneakers.

"Mmuugh.. please..the choc'latescrubbisponge," she mumbles, not quite in control of her mouth. She pats his right shoe, begging.

"What...  **are** you doing? And, why is there a  _bowl_..."

In an instant, the bonfire is present again. Coming to her senses, she remembers how she came to be on the floor, atop a Tetris-assembled collection of new couch cushions. She  _could_  explain why she is down here and why sunbeams are amazing, or maybe how those damned pills probably made some kind of ultra-drowsy reaction with UV rays, but she doesn't want to put forth the effort just now. She grunts at him, removing her hand from his shoe and wiping it on a cushion. Soul's laziness with speaking actual words is rubbing off on her. She looks up at him, his face appearing to be perpetually sucking on sour lemons.  _This_  is the guy who reflexively protects her from homicidal would-be father figures.

"What're  _you_  doing, with yer pants undone, standin o'er me," she accuses through a cotton-filled mouth.

Soul grimaces, and doesn't award her with any type of flush. He doesn't turn around as he glowers at her and zips his jeans back up. He sits on the piano bench, which is closer to her than the couch (though it wouldn't have been comfortable there, as she has all the cushions underneath her). She rolls onto her back, entirely too self-conscious, head lolling to one side towards the window. The sun feels good on her face, though it feels nothing compared to the flames searing her from his direction.

"You skipped out again," she says to a burning ball of fire.

"Mehhh. Only last hour. Spirit came in for a demo and didn't wanna see his face. Though... bet it would've been entertaining if Stein was going to do another live autopsy."

The both snort.

"Took your stinkin notes. Was tempted to ask Kid to do them," the amusement in his voice frustrated and fascinated her.

"Thank you for your consideration, I'm sure Kid would still be writing today's date by now," she said tiredly. She could probably fall asleep again if her body wasn't on fire and the bond wasn't constantly poking her and restraining itself in hopes of not irritating her. She opens an eye in Soul's direction. He is boredly staring at his enclosed hands, at odds to the buzzing of the bond.

Is this impassive guy  _seriously_  fidgeting emotionally? Had she never noticed this before? Or even more strangely, is he  _allowing her_  to notice this?

What exactly are they now? They obviously don't want to lose their current statuses with the other: friend, confidant, protector, partner. Something recently had changed though, someone had slipped, something had been misunderstood, and now they were exchanging kind-of intimacies with each other. Are these feelings allowed into this type of relationship? Is it normal to casually let things slide into something more...personal? Can angry mouth manipulations be even remotely considered romantic? Is she willing to dare to expect more things from him?

Most importantly, does Soul faithfully attend her out of duty or out of love? His eyes lift, locking on her one. She feels the bond change its current, shifting all attention to her face, twitching when she blinks slowly, pulsing with her lazy breathing. He's aware of her every move. Ever watching, ever steadfast.

Duty or love, neither is a really terrible choice. One is obviously more preferred over the other, but neither ends in complete separation. Can't she just lay here, in the heat? Can't she bask in the warmth and allow it to seep into her slowly, while she rests unguardedly? Soul will accept her, right? Regardless if he does or does not return her feelings, he will always be here, watching over her. Even if she lets it all go, she will always be warm.

Maka decides that this is the best idea she's had all day. What? To be able to finally relax around him, to not clench onto her own heart so tightly, to be able to  **enjoy**  loving Soul? Yes. That's a fantastic idea. Courage is something that comes easily to her, after all. She shall flip the bird to all of this emotional turmoil.

Words aren't needed, but she calls for him anyway, as if she didn't already have his devoted, undivided attention. She merely opens herself to him, throwing anxiety to the wind, the relief of countless walls kicked down. "This is how it is," she thinks. "This is how I am." She feels him balk, not physically moving at all but emotionally strafing, carefully dancing around this new development, neither intruding nor retreating. His eyes only marginally open a touch wider between choppy daggers of white fur.

Maka closes her eye and returns her face to the full blaze of the sun streaming in the window. She simply exists on her throne of cushions, breathing deeply within arms reach of her partner. It is only as she is succumbing to the warmth and comfort, the world's sounds becoming dim, does she feel the tiniest echo of her surrender to him. She can't help but smile, turning it around and amplifying it back to him as if to say 'yes, that's exactly right,' as she falls asleep.


	9. Joga

**Soul**

**  
**

He had lied.

Soul scrubs his pale mop of hair with lukewarm enthusiasm. The rushing water of the shower pelts his back and ricochets off of half-empty plastic shampoo bottles. He is lost. After the weirdness of the past few days, this afternoon, and just now with Maka on those overstuffed, fuzzy cushions, he feels that there are too many variables. He can't comprehend it all at once. This music is too hard for him to merely sight-read. He needs to study it, to find the common theme, to feel the rhythm.

He still feels the grime of the bar he had gone to with Black*Star, and scrubs harder. They had skipped out of class during the lunch break (not just the last hour, as he had told his meister), and he had lured the ninja out with promises of booze and cheap salty snacks.

* * *

The idea of poisoning his liver on a Tuesday at fifteen past noon doesn't exactly interest him, so he sips some dry ginger ale while Black*Star rambles on about his latest amazing failure. The kid is a monster- chugging low quality, lukewarm beer on a beat up barstool, during sweltering daylight in the fucking desert. He has no standards.

An angry, dusty, lopsided ceiling fan spins at break-neck speeds above them, wobbling precariously. Though it tries its hardest, air whipping around them and knocking chunks of hair into Soul's eyes, the heat is still stifling in the building. The bartender pretends to mind his own business, but he is obviously curious as to why two from the academy are at his establishment in the middle of the day. They do kind of stand out, being the only patrons, possibly underage, and in Spartoi gear.

Soul eyes the peanuts, wanting something salty to counter the sweetness of the ginger ale, but he can't look at a goddamn bowl of nuts (legumes, whatever the hell) without seeing Maka's horrified face. It should make him laugh, but he can't find the muscles that allow him to do so. "Serves her right, the idiot."

"Wha?"

"Nothing," he mumbles, sliding the bowl with the back of a finger to his comrade. They're vacuumed within seconds. Soul idly digs his thumbnail in a large crack of the wooden grain of the counter top, a gritty history of drunken disgruntlement giving way to his efforts. He needs counsel. He has brought Black*Star here because he needs a second opinion, preferably from someone without tits.

Black*Star's massive steel-toes clang on the rungs of the barstool. The pleather of the chair squeaks as he shifts. He orders another beer and stares at the archaic television suspended in the corner of the bar. "So, you're clammed up as usual. Does Rico Suave need another gurl-talk?"

Soul shoots his friend a displeased look through the mirror that sits behind the bar, but Black*Star doesn't even feign any signs of giving a crap, eyes glued to the screen. Soul turns his gaze and studies the bubbles fizzing in the drink between his hands. The majority of them rise to the surface, but he can't help but feel a bit of kinship with the carbonation stuck to the sides of the glass, refusing to let go.

He frowns. The hell is wrong with him? Get it over with, already.

"I'm in love with her," he blurts out to his glass, almost angrily. He glances up to the mirror at his own reflection. He can't find his cool. There's just a face, vaguely like his, and he isn't sure he wants to claim it. He can't even keep eye contact with himself, it is so alienating. There is a small silence. Soul taps his fingers on his glass, impatiently.

Belatedly, Black*Star half-turns his body towards him, with his eyes still on the television. "...Uh huh?"

Soul blinks. The moron isn't even paying attention. He purses his lips. As the ninja blindly reaches toward his beer, Soul moves it just out of his grasp. A bit further. A little more. Black*Star's hand slaps around the counter in his search. He finally turns around, searching for his glass, and finds Soul glaring at him.

"Bitch. Yeah whatever, you wanna do her. Good for you, you can catch up to the rest of us, virgin. Gimme that-" he complains, grabbing his beer as Soul does his best not to splutter at how bluntly Black*Star puts his situation. He tries to defend himself, explaining that it's more than just simply wanting to  _do her,_  though that may certainly be involved, but the link keeps making things complicated, she doesn't want anything like that from him, plus he actually  _respects_  his meister, not to mention what the  **fuck** did he mean about 'the rest of us'?

"Now waitawaitawaita minute. I have the highest respect any god can have for Tsubaki- say that again and the great Black*Star shall bury thee and thy pathetic jaw-flapping with a mere fart, but- what link?"

Soul puts his head in his hands, trying to keep frustrations from leaking out his ears. "This terrible... amazing... awful thing-"

"Whut, you mean the Soul Chain?"  
"...Haaah? That supposed to be a bad pun?"  
"Take it up with the Head Skull-Cheese, dude, I didn't name it. If I had, it would definitely be named after moi."

Soul can only merely repeat the name. "Soul... chain." Black*Star half-grins and nods in a way reminiscent of someone reassuring him that this is, indeed, the way things are, and where has he been all this time?

"You should prolly stop skippin out so much, dude."  
"Apparently. Wait, back the fuck up, so  _you_  have this? Between you and ... _ **waugh**_ -" Soul has to stop completing his sentence in effort to not imagine Black*Star and his weapon in situations that were way too private for him to contemplate with a steady stomach.

"With Tsubaki? Well yeah, everyone has it that's been partnered as long as we have, guy. Some kinda price we have to pay, right? 'Side effect.' But the higher-ups decided it works out in the end, cause partners survive better when they can pretty much read the other's mind."

Soul is devastated that he's felt in the dark this long.  _Everyone_  has it? And, and  **Maka-**  she'd probably known it was normal the entire friggen time! This revelation is about as embarrassing as realizing that his parents had fucked each other to make him. His world is rocked.

"Take a breather, guy. Here, you want a beer?"  
"...No."  
"Whatevs. The Chain's not so bad, wimp. You can turn it off, anyway."  
"WHAT-"  
"Phhhh! Just kidding, messing with you is classy entertainment for me."

Soul knocks Black*Star's stool over with a swift kick and orders a shot of something extremely bad for him while the ninja guffaws from the floor, holding himself off the smeary tile with a mere finger. Freakin irritating. The alcohol burns down his throat, setting fire to his stomach. It gives him something to focus on and get his priorities in order.

"So with this chain thing, how do you stay sane? Though guess 'sane' isn't exactly a correct usage of the word with you," Soul amends, while Black*Star rights himself back on the stool.

"Well I  _like_  it, personally. Me and Tsubaki hooked up not long after it started-"  
"Don't know whether to congratulate you or gouge my eyes out."  
"-cause it lays down all the cards, right? So no sense beatin round the bush, whatever that shit means."

To the skeptical look he wears, Black*Star casually makes vulgar reenactments with a finger and an OK signal directly in front of Soul's face. He swats the ninja's hands away, annoyed.

"And actually, it's pretty crazy ya'll haven't banged yet anyway. You must have some hardcore self-control."  
"Understatement."  
"What happened to Rico Suave? Make the first move already. Even Kid and the Thompsons've done it- never pegged that uptight psycho to be into threesomes, but he's prolly got it made, what with those jugs, I mean damn-"

" **Oh-kay**. Bartender! Another beer please, quickly," to shut him up, because having an imagination around Black*Star is hazardous.

Hazard in question downs the beer effortlessly. "Though you gotta admit, we're really better off than say Ox and Havar. That's gotta be all sortsa confusing being paired with a dude."

"Thought Ox and Kim were a thing."  
"That's why it's weird. For Havar. Can you imagine being Chained with Maka while she does some other guy? Awkward."

Soul doesn't mention that the very idea makes him want to personally castrate anything else with a penis within two hundred and forty-five thousand miles, which should also account for even the god-damned moon being within his limits.

Black*Star guzzles another beer. The bartender has since given up returning to his seat at the cash register, as every time he sits down another beer is ordered. Soul thinks the conversation over until, while returning his attention to the screen, Black*Star speaks again. "Though it's not like she'd ever do anyone else. She's been waiting on your  _dumb ass_  since before even Spartoi."

Soul quietly chokes on his ginger ale when he realizes which 'she' he is referring to, as if there could be any other. Black*Star rolls a sidelong glance at him through the bar mirror, chewing peanuts.

"Go on Rico, ask me how the great Black*Star knows."

* * *

Most people claim that the sounds of rushing water and rain are very peaceful and calming. To Soul, they're a chaotic, unorganized cacophony. Storms irritate him. White noise has never helped him relax or lull him to sleep. There needs to be a melody, a rhythm, any kind of structure, because otherwise he will strain to find one even when he knows there will never be anything there to grasp.

Soul shuts off the shower. He steps out onto the tile, the balls of his feet squeaking on slick surfaces. He scrubs his head with a towel, to remove the excess moisture and all the things in his head that don't matter: How Maka now incessantly wants lasagna, how the yellow glow from cheap vanity lights in the bathroom make him look sickly, how badly he wants the both of them to go out on assignment and beat the shit out of shit (which is serious for him, because he generally prefers staying home, away from everyone else), how he's starting to look more and more like his brother, and how lasagna doesn't sound like a half-bad idea after all.

He feels Maka puttering around the apartment, awake from her nap, collecting dirty laundry. Freakin busybody. The strange hole follows her around- the one she mentally exploded when he had come home. Ever since then, every stray feeling she's had has been ten times too intense. The link scrapes his nerves raw. He won't pester her about the stabs of pain she's getting whenever she bends too low, because they're not really as bad as the link makes them out to be. They're a healing kind of soreness, something average and normal. Despite knowing that, every twinge of discomfort feels like sandpaper being scraped on open wounds.

Soul sits on the rim of the tub wearily.

His meister. He wants to use the excuse of her drowsiness for her strange behavior, which is partially true, but it still feels lame. Maka is Maka. She knows who she is even when insanity takes her over. She may be doing strange things while home alone (chocolate sponges and couch cushions come to mind), but honestly anything she could possibly do under the influence would be considered an improvement over constantly studying barftastic titles such as Shibusen Politics: Deconstructed, or 101 Ways to Get the Most Out of Your Roomate, or Theorems and Death Gods: How to Prove Everything!

Plus she Makachops him less. Big improvement for both the bookworm and the state of his own cranium.

Yeah, she was definitely in control of her actions. One moment she had been staring at him, the sun glinting off her nose and chin, nice and calm-like, and the next she set a friggen nuclear missile at the link, leaving a crater where anything that might have been considered 'usual' had used to be. He felt as if he had been emotionally flashed, like she'd been wearing an inconspicuous, easy-going trench coat and then had ripped it away, revealing her nudie bits. Whatever it was that she'd exposed to him, she did it deliberately. She had even made sure she had his attention first, like an invitation.

Every blockage there may have been has now disintegrated away, the link feeling like his ears are continually popping. The connection they used to have was muffled, muted child's play compared the new one that threatens to overwhelm him in volume and clarity. High Definition. What is even more absurd is that the link still feels toned down, like it could be louder, clearer, more encompassing. If he just steps a bit closer to the crater her missile had left, beyond the obstacle course of shrapnel thoughts emotional radiation, he could probably reach a version of pure, unadulterated Soul Resonance. It's like a black hole that sucks at him, stealing his curiosity, eroding his self-restraint.

But for now, he stays just far enough away, out of reach. This is uncharted territory, and he doesn't want to disturb anything.

_"Ask me how the great Black*Star knows."  
_

And yet, the link undoubtedly draws them together. Despite that he refuses to purposefully cross the border into her crazy nuclear aftermath, he thinks that the gravitational pull is slowly dragging him over the line, a particle at a time. He thinks he can be okay with that. After such an explosive invitation, he ought to at least check things out, right? He wonders what he will hear when he falls.

She calls for him down the hallway while poking him him through the link for his attention. The gesture is a gentle 'Oiiii,' but though the link's newer, larger bandwidth, it is akin to his eardrums bursting and his reflexes being trampled.

Maka can't reach the detergent.

Soul grumbles down the hallway with a towel wrapped around his waist. He can practically smell lasagna standing next to her, she wants the dish so bad. She's still trying to reach for the laundry detergent that he had put on a shelf that is apparently too high for her even though they were of a height. Her frustration slams him from all sides.

"Turn down your volume," he grunts, bringing the jug of soap down to rest on top of the dryer.

Confusion, embarrassment, rushed heartbeat, analytical observation, hunger, and wisps of irritation all repeatedly slap him in the face. He feels caught in fast flowing river, smashing on boulders every half second. She wears a bathrobe, presumably because she's washing all of her clothes at once. She looks like a toothpick wrapped in a comforter. Most of her hair is trapped underneath the collar, but he resists that familiar territory for the moment.

"Turn down what now?"

Has she always blushed this much? "You're noisy. In here-" he lightly prods her forehead with a finger, "-and everything feels like an emergency."

Realization on her face and smashing into his. They have a strange little staring contest as she tries to wrangle her side of the link into an appropriate level. Her expression contorts in reply to his various ranks of grimacing at her efforts. Abstract queries of 'How's this,' 'How about now,' and 'This any better?' Vexed replies of 'No,' 'Fail,' and 'You suck at this.' When Maka finally manages to tweak the link into something a bit more like calm, he verbally encourages her with urgency.

" **That**. Do that. But like  _ten million times more._ "

She shoots him a glare that feels a lot closer to daggers than it ever had before, but she does her best. When she is in tune, her emotions are still more revealing than he is used to, but at least every miniscule nuance from her didn't have Code Red all over it.

"Thanks."  
"You're.. welcome? Sorry. I guess I kind of blew it all wonky."

Subject sidestep. Deadpan. "Uh.. right. Everything was just really loud. Caps Lock. Help me, dying, death, detergent, ahhh."

She giggles a little, measuring the soap in a lid and drizzling it in the washer, a slight flush still on her face. She wears a quiet smile that he is only accustomed to seeing on her while reading romance novels. It disturbs him a bit.

_"Ask me how the great Black*Star knows."_

A knock at the door saves him from awkward silences. Maka shares her displeasure at greeting anyone in a bathrobe, squealing and hiding behind the closest door, which happens to be his bedroom.

"I'm not here," she hisses.

"Where the fuck else would you be?"  
"...I'm asleep then!"  
"In my room?"

Maka has always been a fast learner, and supports the argument as she blows open her side of the link and deafens him with her desire to decapitate him with a large textbook. Soul slinks away to the front door. Doesn't take long for her to switch from content to crabby.

As he approaches the door, he gets a sinking feeling that who he will find on the other side will be a repeat of who he found this morning. His intuition proves correct as Spirit Albarn, complete with dress suit and blood hair, scowls at him from the threshold. He is holding something book-shaped (surprise, surprise) that is wrapped in what can easily be seen as gift wrap for a toddler's birthday party.

"Haaah?"

"Heathen," he says in greeting.

"Gramps," Soul returns.

"I have brought my daughter what she has requested of her Papa," Spirit says condescendingly, eyes twitching with irritation at Soul's state of dress. The unspoken '- _and not_ _ **you**_ ' is heard clearly. "Where is she?"

Soul can't stop the devilish grin from splitting his face.

* * *

Soul is still recovering from what appears to be a fugue, as he doesn't recall what he did to piss her off, and has found another canyon in his skull.

"Seriously think you caused brain damage this time, woman!" He yells across the house while putting on some boxers. Maka calls from the kitchen in reply.

"You deserve worse, no doubt. I should have just let Papa continue murdering you. What did you say to him?"

He slides into some sleep pants. "The fuck should I know? You beat that part out of me!"

Soul shuffles into the kitchen, hopping onto the counter opposite of her. Her back faces him. Maka's posture clearly displays her tiredness, but she is stubborn and determined to have lasagna for dinner. He would have made it tonight, just because of her current state and it was his turn to cook anyway, but she had started ahead of him already. She's stirring tomatoes and herbs in a sauce pan with ample amounts of drowsiness. She constantly rolls up the sleeves of the robe that keep falling down her arms and interfering with her cooking. A blade of the very last of the afternoon light slices its way into the kitchen, highlighting her hair and the numerous folds of fabric.

He belatedly realizes that it's  _his_  robe she's wearing.

"You seriously don't have your own clothes do you?" Soul's tone is accusatory. Her shoulders hunch up a little. Red handed. She sheepishly looks over her shoulder at him.

"But it's so warm..," she pouts. Something in her pitiful mouth tugs at him, or maybe it is the black hole. Whichever the case, he finally is within reach of the rhythm he had been stumbling after for so many days.

The return of Rico Suave is at hand.

"Give it here."

"What," she squeaks, the sauce bubbling happily.

"Give it here," he repeats, sliding off the counter. She faces him worriedly. He sidles up to her, and she has a desperate grip on the waist tie of the robe with one hand and another on a wooden spoon.

"You can't have it!" The defiance in her horrified stare amuses and pleases him.

"It's my turn now.  _You_  can't have it."  
"But.. my clothes! I'm not-"  
"Irrelevant. Either way, seen you naked before. Old news."

She's sliding away from him, digging her heels into the floor, but he has her cornered between the fridge and a wall. Maka timidly chucks some refrigerator magnets in vain. She brandishes the saucy spoon as her only defense. She tries to smack him in the chest with it and he catches her wrist and pulls her arm closer. He savors the embarrassment and anticipation in her wide eyes, the flush that reaches down her neck, the collar of the robe sliding off her shoulder revealing the goosebumps that pop up there. He  _really_  enjoys the fact that she's frozen when she's this close to him, not exactly submitting, but not fighting back either.

_"Ask me how the great Black*Star knows."_

With a free hand, he slides his fingers under her collar- an action which makes her eyes widen to new diameters- and lightly lifts her hair that's still trapped there out from under the robe's heavy fabric. Her neck is warm and tense. Soul then pries the spoon out of her locked fist, giving the sauce a thoughtful-looking lick. He releases her arm, which hangs in the air like part of a statue. He waves the utensil in front of her eyes.

" _This_. It's my turn to cook."

Maka makes an unintelligible noise, and the things the link spews out reminds him of gaping, suffocating fish. Her skin is catching up with the color of the tomato sauce.

"Go sit down or somethin. You look a little stressed out," he smirks.

 _"Because I am Chained with Tsubaki, and Tsubaki knows allllll your lady's secrets, yo_."

The black hole pulls at him, nine parts heavy chagrin, one part sinking attraction, and he lets it pull him an inch closer. He likes that the music is clearer the further he falls.


	10. I Will Possess Your Heart

**Maka**

**  
**

She might be able fry eggs on her face. Regaining her composure seems nearly impossible. Soul can barely keep himself from cackling at the stove, though he doesn't really need to try because she can feel his mirth through the bond either way. His toying with her infuriates her the more she thinks about it, gritting her teeth and embarrassedly padding off down the hall to the washer and dryer.

As Maka tosses a plethora of skirts and gloves and blouses into the dryer, she internally faces the one facet in her jumbled, disoriented feelings that reflects her attraction to him. She finds her face burning even more. He had gone out of his way to pull her close, not for her sake, but for his own! The bond had swamped her, taking in every little change in her body, while his face had stretched wide with that Cheshire grin, music taunting her with smug rhythms and pleased harmonies. Soul was  _flirting._ She's both mortified and euphoric.

She's euphoric  _and he knows it._  These are the consequences of her decision to be open about her feelings with him through the bond. He can know everything about her if he only turns his head in the right direction, and it may be that he is already headed that way, for better or for worse. It seems he's testing her out, exploring his limits, and unfortunately (or fortunately) this involves humiliating her in the kitchen.

She  _might_  be able to handle it. For now. Maybe. Maybe if he's always shirtless.

Perhaps she had felt that idea too clearly, because she hears a snort from the kitchen. However, she knows positively that he feels her need to stuff him in a meat grinder, case him into little sausages, and feed each individual Soul-Weenie to Blair. Maka slams the dryer door, but then realizes she's forgotten to clean the lint catcher. She scowls at the dryer but it's meant for herself, opens the door, swipes her hand along the filter, shuts the door, mashes the start button, and returns to the kitchen to throw the wad of lint at Soul's head. He's standing at the sink, still looking smug. She readies the pitch, and-

The first thing she thinks is that this must be instant karma. The moment the fuzzball connects with his head, the lights go out. Soul makes confused and then irritated grunts. She can dimly see his white head of hair shaking back and forth, knocking off the lint. The sauce for the lasagna slowly ceases bubbling behind him. Maka hears various motors and fans wind down, the prevalent ticking of a nearby clock overcoming all other noises.

"Wasn't our turn for the bill, right?"  
"Mmm- I think it was Blair's."  
"That cat is so kicked."

What kind of electric company turns off their service in the evening and not the morning? Though, she concedes, a lot of the population of Death City is largely nocturnal- zombies, ghouls, witches, various other things that go bump in the night- so perhaps she shouldn't be surprised. Their roommate is still at work in any case, so it isn't like they can do anything about it until she returns.

Uhg, she had just put her clothes into the dryer, too.

"You can't kick our roommate. To err is human."  
"She's a  **cat.**  Not fooled by those pumpkin tits."

"Sure you aren't, Old Faithful," Maka mutters.

She can only see the faint glow of his hair reflecting whatever residual twilight that comes through the living room window. His palm slides against the counter, making his way past her and into where it is easier to see. Maka doesn't follow, feeling her way around counters and cabinets to find the drawer that should have the emergency candles and matches. Lighting a match in the dark involves a lot of fumbling and swearing under her breath, but she manages and melts the first bit of wax off a wick.

The flame casts a yellow-orange glow on the kitchen, shadows from handles and knobs flickering erratically. She eyes the pan of what would have become lasagna, and pouts.

"I'm hungry."

* * *

Soul half-watches her and half-vegetates while lounging on a sleeping bag he normally takes on extended assignments. After only a few minutes without power, the heat of the desert has already crept into the apartment, slowly suffocating them. Soul has thrown open the living room windows in hope of a breeze, but the wind is uncharacteristically humid and unhelpful. Clouds must have rolled in at some point, keeping in the stifling heat of the day like a blanket. He sprawls atop the sleeping bag on the floor near a window, trying not to sweat and numbly watching her wrestle with wet clothes.

Maka sits on the floor with a mountain of hangers and a soggy laundry hamper. The clothes are cool on her skin for a small while, until she handles the garment long enough for the dampness to catch up with the room's temperature. She puts everything on hangers so she can dry her clothes over the bathtub. It sounds strange to line-dry anything at night, but it beats having her attire mildewing in the dryer until they have power again.

Their empty stomachs are holding their own conversations with each other, growling and squawking loudly. They could probably go out to eat, except it's getting late, she only has a bathrobe on, and the heat is slowly killing their drive for anything.

"Milk is gonna go bad," Soul says blandly. The candlelight makes the shadows play on his face; his eyes look more deep-set, his cheekbones stand out in sharp relief, and the shade under his jawline blends in with the darkness of the apartment. He looks older, in a sort-of handsome way, but he mostly just looks exhausted and irritable.

She has no reply. Maka flicks her wrists, trying to straighten out a pair of gloves with fingers that are stuck inside themselves. At least they hadn't done any serious grocery shopping lately- the refrigerator is mostly empty apart from some milk, random condiments, half a carton of cream, and possibly a container of leftovers that has been in there so long that it might reach sentience within the week.

They should probably drink the milk so it doesn't go to waste, but it doesn't sound very appetizing in the heat. It makes her mind think of curdling things like cottage cheese and sour cream. A gust of wind whistles through the windows and makes the candle flicker jerkily. In the crazy dance of shadows, it occurs to both of their stomachs at the same time: Cereal.

Duh.

She hurriedly clips socks to a hanger and they both energetically hang her clothes on the curtain rod above the bathtub, stubbing various toes and knocking shins and smashing shoulders into door frames. As they rush to the kitchen, she can't stop giggling, because they're acting like starving animals and they're both giddy as children over eating breakfast food at night. When she goes to the fridge to get the milk, he stops her from opening it with a large hand on the handle. He softly nudges her aside a little, so they'll both be standing in range of the door's opening.

She holds the candle in both hands as he opens the door, the cooler air that still remains after the power had turned off seeping out and greeting them. They both sigh in relief. The moment passes, cold air depleted, and Soul unceremoniously grabs the carton of milk and shuts the door.

* * *

He's slurping the last bit of sugary milk at the bottom of  _her_  bowl because he's finished his awhile ago. She's still a little bit hungry, but it's nothing she can't ignore and put off until morning with a night's sleep. Maka sits cross-legged on the space he's made for her on his sleeping bag, and they watch what few stars they can see out the windows. He yawns dramatically, hunger sated for the moment. He lies down with a flop, propping his monkey feet on a windowsill.

The night has cooled off a little bit, but it's still warmer than any building in this day and age should be. She stands up to get ready for bed, nylon squealing under her toes. Holding a candle while going down the hallway gives her creeps that she doesn't want to admit outright. It's deathly quiet in the apartment, her footsteps sounding too loud and conspicuous. Brushing her teeth in a shadow-shrouded bathroom makes her feel like she's invading an abandoned house. She berates herself, feeling nervous in the dark after all the countless scary things she and Soul have been through. She is Maka the courageous! The echoes of the bathroom are a joke to her endless reserves of courage.

Needless to say, Soul scares the daylights out of her when he enters the bathroom to brush his own teeth just as she's turning around to exit the room. Red demon eyes are not healthy for her nerves. In the span of about two seconds, she gasps, half-tripping over his foot while simultaneously startled and slinging hot wax everywhere. In the act of trying to keep her from hurting herself, he tries to catch her. The bulk of the melted wax lands on his chest, which drips down over an arm of his scar, at which he makes a strange combination of surprised yelp and hiss, wide-spread fingers clutching at a sleeve of her robe and the muscles of his body tensing in shock.

"Oh. My god."

 _ **"Woman-,"**_ he growls at her through clenched canines. He takes a hand off of her sleeve and gingerly touches the already hardening wax that has dribbled on the angry line of his scar.

"I was... You shouldn't have.. Are you..? Please don't kick me, I'm human."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she's noting the lines of his abdominal muscles, the dark shadows of his bony hips that reach up above the waistline of his pants, and the way that his sides shift as he takes in a breath. It's terribly intimate to contemplate, especially in candlelight, so she concentrates on trying not to be murdered.

She slides out of his grasp, chanting apologies, places the candle on the sink, and ushers him backwards to sit on a closed toilet lid. He tries to gently swat her away, telling her it's just wax, he can do it himself, but she's insistent because it's her fault. He gives her a sour look, but sits complacently, humoring her. She grabs a wash towel and runs it under warm water in the sink. A disembodied arm, lit by the yellow glow of flame, reaches up and grabs a toothbrush. It leaves and returns empty, palm held open expectantly until she places the tube of toothpaste in it.

As she kneels in front of him with the candle and rag, sternly telling a more primitive and gutter-minded part of herself to shut up, he chucks the toothpaste at the sink, landing in the basin with a clatter. He brushes his teeth lazily, a bored look being shot somewhere to his right, by the towel rack. She knows this could have been handled better, like maybe doing this out in the living room, where it's brighter, or perhaps not kneeling between his legs while dressed in only a bathrobe, or letting him take care of this himself, or even not spilling any melted candle on him to begin with, but it's too late now.

He's slightly ticklish. She files this information away for future reference. He stops brushing his teeth a moment with a choking noise and glares at her when she evidently brushes her fingers on his chest too lightly while trying to peel flaking wax off of him. She wonders if he has a blush, but is glad for the semi-darkness because it hides her own.

Most of the wax comes off without incident until she gets to the lower part of the scar. The wax has gathered in uneven ridges that are too sensitive to merely peel it off. She presses the warm towel here, hoping the make the wax more malleable. Maka rests an arm on his thigh while waiting. She removes the rag and reaches out to swipe the wax. Just as her fingers make contact with his scar, the bond bristles erratically while he makes a kind of snort through his nose, breathing out air loudly in a rush.

He puts his left hand on her shoulder, motioning her aside so he can get out from around her and stands up. In a flash her gut sinks, thinking she's hurt him or he's tolerated her long enough, but he just goes to the sink, putting the toothpaste he had thrown earlier back in its rightful place, and spits.

Soul rinses out his mouth in silence. He shuffles back to his previous seat and sits back down, resting elbows behind him on top of the toilet tank. The action reveals more of his abs, stretching the skin taut for easier access. He's looking down at her, but his hair leaves his eyes in shadow. He has the courtesy to not be smirking at their suggestive positions, which is a small relief though it makes the situation more strange in his seriousness. The pose is more submissive than anything, and it's probably more unnerving for him than for her.

This could be real. Their hearts feel so close that only one of them needs to make a tiny shift and merge with the other. Again, as she brushes away the wax, he makes that rushing sound through his nose. Every graze of the rag or her fingertips draws out a forced breath. The bond is shuddering, going in all directions at once. He tries to keep a grip on it, but he either has to control the bond or the actions of his body because he can't do both when she's touching his scar. At a particular spot of bunched tissue, he lets out a quiet rasping gasp.

"Am I hurting you?" she asks in nervous alarm.

"No- just... sensitive. You're fine," he tries to reassure her, whispering shakily.

His hands are clenching behind him, and in the silence between his breaths she thinks she can hear his fingers grinding against each other. The bond is frazzled, sending mixed signals that could be identified as shock or teasing or pain or pleasure or discomfort, but he can't decide on any of them. She doesn't know how to soothe him, so she tries to keep herself calm and tries to transfer that calm to him, but it only half-works because the sensations he's feeling leave her nerves reeling and it's hard to keep her mind straight.

There. Finally done. It had only taken less than a minute or two, but the feelings that had been exchanged in the short amount of time approached millions. She leans back from between his thighs and busies herself with throwing away the flecks of wax she's collected into the bathroom bin. Her heart is racing, but she doesn't try to hide it. Her knees are complaining on the hard tile, but her attention is on the fact that her attraction is echoing back from him, and it's a bit flattering. He bends down to pick up the candle, which is a lot shorter now than when she had first lit it, and holds out a hand to help her up.

She accepts his hand. It nearly burns her. He hands her the light.

He follows her out of the bathroom. She wracks her brain for anything to break the silence but then she realizes that, as she turns to go into her room for the night, Soul is walking down the hallway in the opposite direction of his room, toward the living room. She opens her mouth to ask the obvious, but he just says "G'night, Maka."

She blinks. "Night." She confusedly enters her room. The candle casts a lonely glow. The heat is oppressive in here, without air circulating. She leaves the door open behind her, setting the candle on her night stand and collapsing into the bed. The blankets and pillows are too warm, so she shoves the pillows on the floor and lies on top of the covers. When she closes her eyes, Soul's torso is imprinted behind her eyelids, complete with diagonal line.

* * *

Maka sleeps fitfully, waking every twenty to thirty minutes. It's a combination of things that keep her from sleep- between the temperature and Soul's discomfort echoing at her and her lack of sleep keeping him awake, her body doesn't stand a chance. She rolls out of bed, finding her way around in the dark because the candle has burned out. She should have kept a spare where she could find it easily, but she doesn't feel like digging around in the kitchen again, and her eyes are accustomed to the dark enough now that she can see the majority of things in the living room, anyway.

Soul is on his sleeping bag, laying on his side, which looks uncomfortable for his broad shoulders. He hasn't slept at all. She knows he's awake. He knows she's there. The breeze comes through the windows steadily now, and it isn't unpleasant after being in her still room for a few hours.

"You're totally boned in class tomorrow. Stein will amputate things while you sleep."

He scoffs. "Forget class. More worried about making it through the night without going insane." He rolls on his back, sighing in the relief it brings his shoulders, but she knows that he has never been able to fall asleep on his back.

She feels like an idiot when she realizes that the solution to his problem is not five feet from her.

"Soul!" Her exclamation makes him jump. He squints at her, sitting up on his elbows, confused. She laughs ruefully. "The new couch. It's a sleeper."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

After a lot of face palming and griping, Soul and Maka push the piano as far out of the way as they can manage, though Maka can't do much except make strained, grunty noises. Her time spent in the hospital and lounging about at home has already made her this weak, which annoys her, and she makes a note to do some limbering stretches to wake up her muscles tomorrow. Or perhaps later today, as she doesn't know what time it is any more.

Soul barks at her to stand aside and not hurt herself more when she tries to help him move the couch closer to the window. He tosses the cushions aside and pulls out the folding bed from the inside of the couch. The foot of it comes up right against the open windows, taking advantage of the breeze. Maka takes his shoved-aside sleeping bag and covers the bare mattress with it as makeshift sheets. Soul retreats to his room and comes back armed with pillows and tosses them at the foot of the bed with a loud 'plaff.'

Maka is unsure how to react when she sees two pillows. He lies down, feet towards the back of the couch, head towards the windows. He sighs contentedly. When he sees her hesitance, he questions her.

"Well?"  
"I wasn't... it was just so you didn't have to sleep on the floor-"  
"Shaddup."  
"But-"

He glares at her, the bond feeling like he's somewhat offended.

"...'kay."

She self-consciously tightens the belt around the waist of her robe before kneeling on the bed, settling in upside-down as he is. She wants to lay on her stomach, but her stitches keep her from doing so comfortably, so she rolls to her back as before. The couch still has the brand-new, long-chain polymer smell that slightly tickles her nose and lungs, but the scent of Soul and his sleeping bag help battle it.

"S'not like we haven't slept next to each other before," he grumbles.

She can't help but smile. She catches little phrases of music that fade in and out of the bond. The wind is starting to howl a little in between gusts. She asks him if he thinks it will rain, but he doesn't reply. Maka looks over at him, and finds he is already asleep.

It's a rare sight to see him this deeply gone, because he is usually awake or close to waking if she isn't asleep herself.

"You've been pretty stressed out lately, haven't you," she quietly says.

Because of her health and her sudden change in the bond, he'd probably been scrambling to find any kind of normality for days now. He is beat-tired, and it shows in the lines around his mouth and eyes. She wants to do something to make it up to him, but can't decide between a back rub or a Skip-Class-Without-Getting-Makachopped coupon as he starts to softly snuffle. She lazily wonders if being lulled to sleep by snores is a normal thing, but then again they weren't exactly average to begin with. Maybe over time they will figure it out and come together as normal people do.

Heck, maybe they'll even kiss each other without being  _irritated_  about it.

Just as she's on the edge of slumber, it begins to rain.


	11. In Limbo

**Soul**

**  
**

He wakes to claws and wet fur landing on his side. Really? There has to be a limit on how much torture a guy can take in one day.

A logical side of himself argues that it's well past midnight- if Blair's soggy arrival is any indication- so naturally any limit on torture per day would be reset. He wishes there was a way to punch his logic in the balls.

He sits upright, claws scraping down his chest and thighs as Blair shivers and soaks the lap of his pants. He holds his tongue, biting back a howl, remembering Maka is beside him, still asleep. He grabs Blair by the scruff and carries her towards the kitchen. A black magic arm pops out of her hat and slaps at him while she squirms out of his hold. He releases her inelegantly on the kitchen floor.

"Brat. Why are you two sleeping out there?" He hears her shake her paws rapidly, flinging little droplets of water everywhere. Her dark fur has disappeared in the darkness.

"Because of you," Soul sneers. He takes off his pants because they annoy him in their dampness. He should probably care more that he's stripping to his boxers in the dark in front of a beast that could go from house-pet to succubus in one and seven-tenths of a second, but he's too tired to give a shit.

"And why is it so dark?" She summons a little floating jack-o-lantern, casting Halloween hues in the kitchen.

"That's also your fault. Don't open the fridge," he warns, yawning. He really doesn't have any hope in staying awake in class later.

* * *

He stands at the windows, watching the rare downpour. He's grateful for the awnings that shield them from the rain, but still overall displeased because falling asleep with a rainstorm has never been one of his stronger points. Maka rustles a bit when Blair jumps on the bed and curls up between the small cushions that are Maka's tits. The girl's legs are peeking out between the opening of the front of the robe. The witch-cat catches where he's staring, and almost tauntingly, with an insinuated first-come-first-serve flick of her tail, smirks- if cats can smirk.

It makes a corner of his lip twitch in a sneer. He returns his gaze out the window. Blair had seemed sincere when apologizing about the bill, and she said she would take care of it today. He still wants to kick her though, out of principle and the fact that she uses her tits to sway any conversation into her favor.

Whatever. At least the apartment has cooled off from the rain. Thunder rumbles through the windows, counterpoint to the uncool indecision about Maka that he battles.

He knows what he wants from her, generally speaking. Being more close with her, more private with her, more intimate with her- so close that Soul Resonance would be nothing but a sigh heard from across the room. And he knows that she doesn't oppose his wants. It irritates him that the very idea that they haven't messed around is considered a joke to their peers. How can they laugh at something like this? It's a low blow to his pride that they've all (even Kid, which he can't quite wrap his head around) surpassed him in this particular subject, and that he and Maka have been together so long that the next insinuated step is painfully obvious.

But pride aside, the fact is she's his meister. He breathes to serve her, to protect her and her cause, and to be nothing but the best tool for her needs. If he had been challenged with any other task than this, he would tackle it without hesitation, but it's Maka, and he fumbles. He will not hurt her, physically or emotionally, if he can help it. He must do it right, if anything shall be done at all. There is too much at stake.

He wishes she would just come out and say it- order him to belong only to her, to crush her to him, to give permission- but she won't because she's as unsure as he is, plus she respects him enough to try to never abuse the Meister-Weapon balance. Not like he would do anything she demanded like a sheep or against his own will if it seems to him it would do more harm than good, but it's the thought that counts.

She  **is**  unsure. He is supposed to be the protector. The guardian. But when it comes to things like this, more often than not  _she_ is the one guiding _him_ , even in her lack of surety, unwaveringly guiding him through the dark. He will fumble, blundering about, but she'll wait until he gets the hang of it.

At least he hopes so, this time. He'll keep going forward, at his own disgruntled pace. He's determined to get this right, even if he doesn't know what that really entails.

He's pretty sure that it involves getting some fucking sleep, though.

A flash of light warns him a splinter of a second before the loud impending  _crack_ and ensuing thunder fleeing away from the scene. He feels Maka wake with a snap of consciousness, startled, throwing out her senses to find out what's going on and where he is. Blair scrambles across the bed and slinks underneath the mattress and couch.

She's still disoriented, calling for him through the Soul Chain, so he gives her a soft 'over here.' How she addresses him through the link has always been a mish-mash of her perceptions and a tinkling of notes that she associates with him, which he's found to be somewhere around 'aloof accomplice' and C-sharp minor. It's almost flattering when she calls for him that way, that she sees him in such a blunt but not entirely unoffensive manner.

The notes, especially. They've heavily influenced the song he's been writing. He allows himself a smug smile.

Realizing that it had only been a nearby lightning strike, she's back to lethargic in seconds, feeling exasperated with herself, dumbly flinging out an arm above and behind her resting head to dully smack into the back of his calves. Her fingers travel upwards to his deer-in-the-headlights dismay, until they reach the hem of his boxers, tangling themselves in the fabric and tugging him back to bed.

"Sleep," she orders thickly.

As much as he wishes to, he doesn't think he can with the rain pelting the awnings and roof. However, he obligingly crawls into bed, partly because it sounds like a good idea and partly because she might start pulling off his shorts while half-asleep. He flops tiredly in a heap on his side. She's not exactly looking at him, but he thinks that it's more of a lack of wanting to pry her eyes open any wider than it is avoiding eye contact with him. She's reflexively checking him over through the link- it seeps around him, making sure he's whole, doting on him like a child.

"It's 'cause of the rain," he offers, when she can't find anything wrong with him. He doesn't feel like explaining the whole thing, and merely harrumphs at her sleepily perplexed expression. He mashes his head into his pillow, hoping to dig up some peace from the feathers.

He feels her hand snaking its way across the sleeping bag, running into his jaw. She feels his face and then places her palm on the ear that he isn't laying on. She noisily slides it past him, letting her forearm rest on his ear.

"The hell are you-"  
 _"Listen."_

He frowns. How is he supposed to hear anything when she's blocking his ear in the first place?

"Don't hear anything."

She sighs irritatedly. "Come closer."

Stall! "What, so you can better eat my brain?"

"What brain," she whines, "just do it."

So much for not abusing her command. He slides closer to her, first attempting to not invade her space, but giving up when she scoots closer as well, jabbing him with toes and elbows. They're tangling together, one of her legs coming to be sandwiched between his. He tries not to rest his arm on her stitches, the position seeming familiar. He makes a noise that he prays she wont remember later when she grabs his hair and yanks him to her  _neck._

He's a little unnerved at how intensely he wishes to simply bite her here, to nuzzle and lick, and he's grateful when she distracts him with another order to  _listen._

Oh. Maka's pulse through the artery in her neck greets him. Her hand is back over his ear again, shielding the sounds of rain. Her voice is more detailed and varied when his ear is pressed to her throat.

"You need a rhythm right?" Her voice is lazy and calming.

Right here, where his head lay, the core of his own existence beats. The definition of what he protects is here. It's what drives him and comforts him. He knows that some day, this beat will cease, and though that thought makes him want to pull out his own soul and consume it, he knows he will do everything so her heart lives to its longest, fullest life span. With a slight, miniscule puckering of his lips that he's not even sure he gave permission to move, he leaves the faintest of kisses on her jugular.

Her breath rushes through her wind pipes as she orders him again to sleep. How can he not obey?

* * *

**"Evans."**

Shit.

He had already passed out before he had found which demon is teaching today. He looks up blearily, awaiting his doom. He's never been so happy to see Maka's father in his entire life. Stein could torture him (legally!) for sleeping in class, but Spirit could only be happier if Soul simply isn't _here_ , sleep being the closest thing to non-existence.

He could almost sound chipper when he replies, "Yeah?"

"Stein wants to see you. Get out."

Shit.

Soul walks out of the class, hands deep in his jacket pockets. Black*Star jeers at him but Soul's not really paying attention. He shoulders out the door and shuffles his way tiredly to Stein's office/lab/dorm/cave. At the doorway to the office, Soul passes Marie on the way out, and she bubbles over in happiness at seeing him, asking how Maka is, overall boring him to tears.

"Mm, I'll tell her you said hi."

"Thanks! Doctor Stein's inside, waiting for you." She wanders off, holding a map of Shibusen's hallways to guide her up to the classrooms. As much as he finds it useless, he can afford to be at least somewhat polite to the weapon. If he hadn't seen her in battle first-hand, he would have zero suspicions of her being able to pack a punch that could send him through every wall in the building and clear into California. Safety first.

He enters Stein's lab, formaldehyde slamming into his nose like a wall. He pulls the collar of his jacket up and over his mouth in nausea. Soul leans on a dissection table while the professor scree-screes around on the squeaky wheels of his desk chair, going from one computer to the next, checking data on only Shinigami knows what.

Stein asks in greeting, "Ready for some extra lessons?"

"Say what?" Soul blurts out, muffled from his jacket.

"Fret not, Maka didn't sign you up for them this time. Something or other, you skipped class, yadda yadda punishment, I need a weapon."  
"What... Then use Marie! Or Spirit!"

Scree-scree. Scree-scree.

"Who would teach class?"  
"Sid?"  
"He's out too. It's his birthday."  
"Now you're just pulling my leg."  
"You're right, he doesn't celebrate it anymore now that he's undead."  
"Raaagh! Don't care  _who_  teaches class, Ox Ford could probably do it anyway- why  _me?"_

Stein ceases gliding back and forth across the room, leaning backwards in his chair, hair dangling out of his eyes as he looks upside-down at Soul. "Like I said, punishment."

"Detention's fine, thanks."  
"Too bad. We leave as soon as possible."  
"Wait, like out on assignment? Doesn't _sound_  like extra lessons..."

Stein stalls, getting out of his chair and clicking the bolt in his head a few notches. He suddenly seems more serious, and less zany. Which is just as well, because if the professor had kept up his cryptic replies Soul would have to serve him lunch via scythe sandwich.

"It's a mission that they want me on, specifically. And though you're a Death Scythe in mostly name only, you're still a formidable weapon above the other students, even without the experience. Plus you happen to be meister-less for the moment."

 _"She's recuperating,"_  he growls out between clenched teeth, offended.

"Of course. I'm not implying you're no longer... hers. They need me, I'm compatible with basically every weapon, and you're available."

Soul grouchily hisses at him.

"Pack for two nights. Dismissed."

* * *

He walks into his blistering-again apartment to see Blair lifting up Maka's blouse and drawing down the waistband of her skirt. Maka is blushing but letting the witch do as she pleases.

"What. The  **fuck** -"

The two women look at him, startled to see him home so early. Maka absently smacks the hand on her shirt to keep up a guise of modesty in his presence. Neither look ashamed though, and it pisses him off.

Maka blurts a confused greeting and then Blair continues talking, evidently where she left off before he had barged in. Barged in...to  _his own home, by god!_

"But yeah, I bet she could take care of this in like five seconds, probably!"

"She-who?" He asks, dumbly, trying not to look at Maka's bared skin. Or Blair's, for that matter.

"Kim. Blair thinks she could help speed up my healing."

Soul stares at the two of them, dumbfounded. Why hadn't he thought of that! Well whatever. If Kim could heal Maka-

"Then maybe I wont have to go to freakin Africa with STEIN!" He's so happy at the prospect he could jump out the window.

The two look at him, all at once alarmed.

"Africa?" Blair asks.

"Stein?" Maka questions, "In the middle of the week? Without me? To  **where**?"

"Yes. Yes, yes, and yes, but if  _you_  are healed then at least we can go together and not with  _Amputate-A-Foot-In-My-Fuckin'-Sleep-Hakase._ "

"But Kim is in class still," Blair reminds them. "You'd have to wait 'til school lets out, right?"

Soul makes frustrated noises. "She's right, he's already downstairs, commandeering my  **bike** -"

"You're leaving right now?"

The note in Maka's voice leaves all three of them silent for a moment. Blair turns into a cat with a 'poof' and thoughtfully goes to sit by the windows, giving the two of them some space.

The link is poised for his answer, and when he grunts in confirmation, it spazzes out- wavering and clinging and worrying and desperate. The breath she had been holding rushes out of her, making her deflate. Her face is more or less blank, if not a little morose. She looks as if she's about to be abandoned. He wants to do something, but he isn't sure if he's allowed to or can allow himself to. He quietly walks by to his room to pack. She follows him, the link hovering between them like a gloomy cloud.

She asks calmly, "When are you coming back?"

"Theoretically? Friday," He says, shoving socks into a duffle bag. "Realistically, Sunday." As he continues packing, he hears her trudge down the hallway, away from him. After he's finished with what he can take from his room, he turns around to find her back at the doorway, petulantly holding out his toothbrush with a displeased look on her face. He takes it from her hand, grazing his fingers along hers, trying his damnedest to explain to her on the link how much regret he has in leaving her alone and that he hates it as much as she does, and it's not just because he's going with Stein.

"Don't do anything stupid," she pouts.

"Even if I die, he'll just zombify me anyway."  
"I don't want a zombie weapon."  
"Then guess I'll just have to live."

She smiles a little, and blinks a lot. He knows she's telling herself that this is how it's going to be eventually, if she continues to make him a full Death Scythe. He'll have to simply leave without her and in the hands of the current Death God. He can feel her trying to steady herself at this prospect. He leans down a little, to press his forehead to hers, which is as close to comforting her he can get right now without having to exercise a monstrous amount of restraint. A jumble of notes in C-sharp minor reflect back at him in reply. She puts a hand to his chest, right over his scar. The gesture is neither comforting nor romantic, and yet is somehow both.

"You better not still be a wuss when I get back."  _Get some rest._

She scoffs, and thumps his chest with a retorting flick.

Stein wails on his motorcycle's horn from the parking lot. Soul's fingers clench around the handles of the duffle bag. He moves his lips to her forehead- not really kissing, but resting his mouth there. He breathes in the smell of her hair, lets out his breath in a long sigh through his nose, and leaves. They hold on to each other tightly through the link until distance forces it to fade into limbo.


	12. Saeglopur

**Maka**

 

 

The door shuts quietly behind him. She can hear the blare of his motorcycle's horn from the complex's parking lot. Soul is walking down the stairs, slowly picking up speed, nearly thundering down the stairwell towards the bottom. She feels his weakening irritation at Stein, his barely-heard grim resolve to just get this stupid mission over with, and the faint hatred of the idea of riding as passenger on his own vehicle.

She feels herself grasping after him, long after they've sped away.

Why a mission in the middle of the week? Why Stein? And with no forewarning or statement from Shinigami-sama? Their assignment appears to be kept under wraps. It better not be another Medusa spin off- they would have told her about it, right?

Maka puts on a strong face when Blair suggests they go out to somewhere cooler to eat lunch.

* * *

It's nice to get out of the apartment finally, even if it is broiling outside. The pavement bakes her shoes as she and Blair head to the nearest cafe. The sun makes her hair burning to the touch, and they try to stay in the shade of trees and overhanging rooflines and awnings of local businesses. The sidewalk is too hot for Blair's paws, so the witch glides along on an unhappy looking jack-o-lantern, sprawled atop it, desperately trying not to overheat with her black fur.

When they arrive at the cafe, the cold air-conditioning blasts them and revives them. It's almost too cold, after the beating they had taken outside. Maka orders a sandwich and the biggest iced tea they offer. She chats happily with Blair, smiling when appropriate, laughing when due as her mind wanders elsewhere.

They only call Stein when things get out of hand. How are they getting to Africa with Soul's bike? Maybe they went to the airport. Could Stein make it through airport security with that knob sticking out of his head? They would probably arrest him on sight.

Maka numbly offers Blair half of her sandwich. The cat transforms into her human facsimile, as thumbs are useful on occasion. After a dainty bite, she cuts right to the chase, staring at her with her knowing cat-eyes.

"Maybe you can get him something for when he comes back?"

Maka stops, mid-pull on the tea through her straw, at this sudden turn in conversation.

" _That_  obvious?"  
"Mm-hmm."

Maka looks sheepishly out the cafe's window, though there's nothing of interest outside but the waves of heat coming off the roadway and sidewalks. From behind closed doors, there's a clattering of dishes and laughter of the cafe's employees.

"He'll do fine," Blair reassures. Maka is silent for awhile but her worries finally stutter from her mouth.

"That's not what I'm... Soul is a good partner, and Stein is more than adept. It's just that... the whole thing seems so sudden- I don't know what to make of it."

Maka's glass sweats in her hand, condensation dripping and leaving a ring on the table. Blair chews thoughtfully.

"Well, if Kim fixes you up today, maybe you can find out in school tomorrow," she offers happily.

Maka nods slowly. She doesn't mention the black blood and how Stein is susceptible to insanity.

* * *

She's studying the music book at the piano when a knock raps on the door. Her feet feel sticky as she makes her way across the warm floor, and the deadbolt feels like it's been kept hot in someone's feverish hand. She's surprised to see Havar, of all people, standing at the other side of the door, the glare from his lenses hiding any emotion he may have behind them. She then hears Ox and Kim coming up the stairwell, the young witch bickering to Ox's dismay.

"Albarn."  
"Ah- Havar, call me Maka... Why are you-"

The stoic weapon merely points with his chin towards Blair who is lounging atop the piano. The cat's ears perk at Kim's voice.

"Ah come in, come in," she says, shifting to two legs and her latest clothing-minimalist outfit. "I'm glad you all could make it!"

Blair stalks around Havar, who stands apathetically under her gaze, much to the witch's chagrin. Maka knows why Kim has arrived, but is at a loss for the other two classmates, and voices her confusion. "Is there something I can do for you guys?"

"Bu-tan called in a favor or two," Her roommate exclaims while running her lacquered nails along the collar of the weapon's shirt.

"I'm here to take you off the grid for a few months," Havar states, looking bored from over Blair's shoulder.

Kim chimes in, coming to hug Maka. "I'm here for your stitches!"

Ox nosily glances through the book Maka had been studying, "I'm here because they're here. And your weapon's horrible note-taking is offensive, so I bring tidings of knowledge."

Maka can only laugh stupidly as her friends smile at her warmly (or in Havar's case, with less of a frown), even if the melting heat of the apartment makes them strain to do so. She's still giggling and giving profuse thanks to everyone while Kim's magic tickles her stomach.

"I would have come sooner if I had known, Maka! I heard that you were just sick or something, and I can only fix wounds.."  
"It's okay, it hadn't even occurred to us to ask for your help. Not that it matters, you know you're welcome over anytime, not just when one of us is injured."

The witch smiles shyly at her while Ox lectures her on three days of class, and Havar sits dispassionately against the wall with a lightning bolt-shaped finger connected to wires that run out the door and down three flights of stairs to her apartment's meter. She doesn't quite understand how he knows how much current he needs to give to make a credit on her bill for the next six months, or if it's even legal, but she's not going to look the gift horse in the dry, sober mouth. The magic at her stomach knits her muscles together, and she's already feeling better than before she had had surgery.

_"You better not still be a wuss when I get back."_

She will be stronger than ever, with friends such as these. Blair looks smug as she cleans between her claws while sitting next to an air vent that sputters to life.

* * *

After restocking the fridge with a refreshing marathon of grocery shopping, accidentally cooking too much for dinner because she's forgotten Soul isn't around to eat his multiple, monstrous servings and calling Tsubaki and Black*Star over to help finish it all off, and seeing her friends out the door with a cheery goodnight, she sits down wearily on the couch. Maka finds herself mentally exhausted from reaching for the bond all day and not finding any kind of reply.

With a little help from her earlier visitors, the living room is back into it's usual configuration, but seeing the room back to normal only seems to amplify Soul's absence.

Her gaze travels to the flowers her father had bought her during her hospital stay. They are starting to wilt and decay, a few Shinigami look-a-likes having fallen to the coffee table's surface. She stands with a small grunt and takes the bouquet to the kitchen, discarding the mostly-dead stalks and placing what remains in fresh water. She walks back to the living room, placing the thinned-down flowers at a windowsill.

She sits at the piano, eying the book her father had brought her. She studies a few more pages of it, committing black dots and circles and wavy lines to memory. She gingerly presses the ivory colored keys, trying to play the simple measures it depicts. Satisfied that she can at least read that much, she becomes curious, standing and opening the piano bench to get to Soul's wrinkled sheets of music.

Bringing them out and setting them atop the piano, she sits down again, excited. But she's dismayed when she tries to decipher what he's written, symbols and an absurd amount of notes crammed in every measure- his music is beyond anything she can comprehend. She scans desperately, trying to find any part simple enough for her to at least attempt pecking out on the piano. She finds nothing on the scraps of paper bags and napkins.

Forlorn, she gathers up the music, a small, yellowing sheet of an old post-it note falling from her hands and fluttering to the floor. It lands, only-marginally-sticky-side up, and she spies more lines and notes that she hadn't seen earlier. She bends down to pick it up and studies his refined writing. There are less lines and symbols she doesn't recognize, and at the bottom corner he had scrawled  _'lullaby.'_

There isn't much on the small piece of paper, so it doesn't at first appear to be much of a song and is more likely to be an unfinished portion, but she spies a symbol she's already read about- two dots and a double bar- a repeat sign. Seeing the music as a whole, the lullaby would go on indeterminately, forever, until... what? Until the lyrics ran out?

Something in her tugs a bit at the thought of Soul thinking up children's rhymes to his little lullaby. She decides that she will learn what every single mark means on the faded post-it, and studies long into the night, eyes straining, becoming familiar with every pianissimo, triplet, and pedal sustain.

* * *

She wakes from Blair's head-butting. She groans as she lifts her head from the keys of the piano.

_So that's how he does it._

"You gotta get ready for school, girl!"

Oh! She's a flurry all over the house, showering and shoving toast in her mouth and getting dressed and brushing teeth and fighting piano-face and wrestling with her overcoat and gloves. She grabs the notes Ox had given her and the music textbook and only just stops herself from yelling at Soul to  _hurry up_ , because it's time to go.

Oh. Her lips press together thinly as she grabs her house keys and heads out the door. It's already unbearable outside, particularly with her long coat, and she's grateful that the Spartoi colors are blue and  _white._  Her head is still a jumble, sorting out music from Soul's mission from Ox's cram session from the idea of buying cuff-links as a welcome-home present.

Once in class, she's swamped in conversation with Liz and Tsubaki, reassuring them that's she's fine now, fit as a fiddle thanks to Kim- yes, they should have dinner or something tonight, they can make plans during lunch.

"But where is Soul?" Black*Star asks, a row behind them.

"Yeah, he got called out of class yesterday by  _Professor Stein_  and haven't seen him since," Patty adds with a barely contained snort.

The group looks at Maka expectantly- all but Kid, whose attention is on the legs of his chair, one of which being shorter than the others by some marginal degree. Maka tries to make her voice cheerful but doesn't think she pulls it off by the confused looks on their faces.

"He's out on assignment with Stein-hakase."

She's immediately bombarded by questions of what, where, and why the hell has he gone without her. She explains what she knows, but as it isn't very much, she can only shrug to prove her confusion. After a small silence, Kid enters the conversation with a haggard look on his face after dealing with the imbalance of his chair.

"It may have something to do with Sid-sensei's disappearance."

" **WHAT**?" All but the headmaster's son blurt in unison.

* * *

Patti is still resting from her last match with Black*Star, so Maka spars with Kirikou during Physical Ed. He's the only other person in the class that can punch her hard enough to make her want to focus on the present- to keep her mind wandering to the mystery of Soul's assignment.

Landing a kick on him is akin to hitting a tree, but at least she makes contact. She prides herself in her squirrelly-ness, dodging his fists with relative ease, though he does get a few grazing blows on her thighs where she's accustomed to having Soul in her hands to block the open area.

Soul. Were they on a mission to find Sid-sensei? Is that why the whole thing is hushed, because the academy doesn't want to advertise that they've lost one of their own?

_WHAM._

Maka suddenly finds herself studying the shoes of her sparring partner, her protective headgear digging into the side of her cheek.

"Albarn... are you good? You were a sitting duck just now."

She groans a little in reply. Damn. She chose Kirikou so she wouldn't think of Soul, not to get a concussion. She takes the meister's offered hand and stands back up, embarrassed. She's ready to start again, but her father's voice calls for her across the gymnasium.

"Maka, come with me."

He's unusually sober, and it catches her attention immediately. Kirikou also notices Spirit's strange demeanor, and waves her off with an encouraging nod. She hurries after her father.

Spirit walks briskly to the Death Room. He's murmuring things under her breath and she catches phrases that sound like 'Don't want you to go,' and 'Papa will be going,' and 'Idiot kohai.'

She wants to ask what all this is about, but she's afraid that she might interrupt his serious behavior, and that would be a waste, indeed. She's nervous as they walk under the torii guillotines, and she is relieved for a short moment when her Soul Perception finds the familiar and terse aura of Kid, the weary but respectful waves of Liz, and the bubbly and loyal qualities of Patti. The relief is followed by the gut-sinking feeling that the coming meeting would be strictly business.

Business that she will have to endure without her partner.

Shinigami-sama is cordial as always, and she's never sure if it's all just an act and reflex on the god's part or if he's just sincerely chipper all the time. Maybe he has to be, to hold the position of the most grim job on the planet, else he would be as neurotic as his son.

She hears the smile in his voice. "Maka-chan! So glad to see you are doing well- we are fortunate to have you back with us."

She can only nod, not being able to smile away the worry from her face while sandwiched between the serious Kid, the unusual quiet from his weapons, and the alien-like graveness of her father. Shinigami regards them silently for a moment, and then indicates the patio table behind him. Atop it is something hopping around on an antique and very Shinigami-style typewriter that she finally realizes as a severed finger.

An  _animated_ , severed finger. She's seen stranger things, but it's still a little unnerving. Death explains that it is Professor Stein's finger, back from Madagascar. He won't go into details about the habits of Stein's body parts retaining life, but long story short-

"They're requesting help. We've tried to keep Sid's kidnapping quiet, because his body holds a lot of information regarding Professor Stein's scientific ability, but it appears that the professor and Soul-kun can't retrieve him on their own. His finger has just arrived after it's poor trip of doubtless hardship-"

The digit in question, after having finished typing, flops to the surface of the table and appears to catch it's breath, though she doesn't know why something without lungs would need air, much less be able to look as if it needed to breathe. Shinigami-sama pulls the paper from the typewriter, and glances it over.

"I was correct in assuming that this is the work of a witch-" Maka's heart stops a moment, waiting for the words 'Medusa' or 'Arachne' to come from his mask, because despite that it is very improbable after the destruction of both powerhouses, nothing is impossible for witches. "But it looks to be one that we do not currently have on our most wanted list. This does  **not**  mean, however, that she or he is not dangerous.

"I've called both Maka-chan and Kid-kun here for your Soul Perception, as you will need it to locate our comrades and the witch. Maka-chan will be taking Death Scythe to Professor Stein and will have Soul-kun returned to her. Please take care of yourselves and find our missing sensei."

"Well, there goes dinner plans," mutters Liz.

"Oh and by the way, there's zombies.  _Pretty much everywhere._  Have fun!"

* * *

For the sake of getting to Soul and their teachers, and to not plummet to her death, she tries her best to get along with her father enough to fly safely. He is accommodating to a sickening level, shape-shifting into beautiful angel wings and even going so far as to creating a luxury seat for her instead of having to straddle a pole all the way across the world. There are several moments as she veers down and to the sides erratically when she can sense her father gushing over her 'cute, frilly panties,' but she bottles her temper, wanting to live long enough to get to Madagascar and to save face in front of Kid, who eyes her worriedly from his rocket-powered skateboard perch.

They stop to land and stretch every few hours or whenever Liz and Patti complain about being in their weapon form too long. They take a final rest at the coast, as they wont be able land again until flying over all the ocean. It's evening, and clouds keep moonlight out of reach. They'll have to fly through the night, unseeing. She has Stein-hakase's finger on her shoulder, and it taps her impatiently, pointing the way when it has her attention.

"How do you even exist, anyway?" She asks it.

The finger waggles at her, as if saying ' _No, no, not your business._ ' She looks to her left, and with a nod from Kid they take off once more, Stein's disembodied finger leading the way.

A mission to a country filled with zombies to rescue a zombie, his creator, and her weapon. She doesn't know any prayers, so she wishes with all her heart that Soul can feel her when she reaches for him.

 _I learned your lullaby, Soul_ , she pleads.  _Can you hear it?_


	13. Ain't No Sunshine

**Soul**

 

'Extra lessons' his ass.

It hadn't been so bad- Stein's quite the meister, and slicing through wave upon wave of zombies had been pretty satisfying- for the first ten hours. Then they had noticed that even the decapitated ones slowly come back to life after hitting the ground, as if the very earth acts as a recharging battery to dead flesh.

It is now coming up on hour forty since battle began. Stein's internal clock is way more creepily accurate than his own. Soul can barely keep up, not remembering the last time he's had a full night's sleep. His mind shoots to Maka and how he's going to throttle her for destroying his sleep patterns. His body is confused, muddled with exhaustion and jet lag.

On the subject of jet lag, he could cry. His poor, sweet motorcycle- or what was once a motorcycle. After the professor's sick experiments and jerry-rigging, it had turned into a sickening-patchwork of spare parts and jet engines to fly them to this forsaken place. Soul will never forgive him. And now it was in the stumpy hands of the enemy! He darkly hopes that it's torn to shreds, put out of its monstrous misery. He is definitely filing for compensation when they hand in the mission report.

If he makes it home alive, that is. Alive and sane. Sane seeming less and less likely with every skirmish.

On Thursday, they had easily scouted from the air where Sid was being kept, on top of an eroding section of plateau. Seeing only a handful of groaning enemies, they had flown low to swoop into the thick of it. That was when they were close enough for Stein to perceive the witch's soul, who had seen them coming from miles away. They'd been shot down by blasts of magic shaped like carrion birds that reached to them with claws that were sharp enough to puncture the wings and engines of his frankenstein bike.

They had plummeted, crashing far east of the plateau. He hadn't asked Stein about the materials used for the parachute he had deployed, but by the smell he'd assumed it had belonged to something (or someone) that used to have skin. Soul maintained the 'don't ask, don't tell' relationship when, somewhere around hour twenty-five and it became clear that they simply couldn't cleave their way back to the bike or Sid, Stein pulled off his index finger and flung it into the ocean. Soul just didn't want to know.

Stein slowly jogs to a stop, leaning heavily against a tree. He mutters something that sounds an awful lot like 'I shouldn't have quit smoking.'

* * *

After a lot of zig-zagging through jungles, plains, and rice paddies, they have finally made it to the base of an intimidating cliff at the edge of the lengthy plateau where they had been shot out of the sky. It's nearly nightfall, and Soul is bitter. He should be home by now (or maybe twelve hours ago- his body has no idea what time it  _should_  be), doing normal Friday Night things, or even just eating lasagna with Maka- wonderful, sane, normal, Maka- whose lack of being even remotely related to a zombie or scientific experiment could never be questioned.

In the twilight sky, dark shimmering silhouettes of vultures circle, searching. As he eyes them, his blade, which is akin to his  _face_ while in weapon form, is smashed into the cliff side, Stein using him as a rock climber uses hooks and grapples to scale a sheer cliff face. He's irked, and the sound of chiseled gravel isn't inconspicuous at all, but he's too tired to gripe about it. He allows his consciousness to fall into auto-pilot, resting his mind and falling into the Black Room.

After hours of Resonating, the room looks ragged. The curtains are frayed and the tiles scuffed and dull without their usual shine. Little Ogre looks positively pleased with himself, waiting for the next round of Soul Resonance and another chance to usurp Soul's sanity while connected to Stein.

Stein is all angles and vectors, and it's not exactly difficult to be compatible with him- the real challenge is to not fall back reflexively to Maka's style which is more curving and flowing. If he does, their performance is poor, the blade dulling and Stein's swings more erratic. But while Soul must concentrate on being synced with Stein, Little Ogre bites his nails and giggles, trying to find a weak spot to infiltrate in his influence. As the professor is weak to insanity, he's an easy target for the demon, only needing one tiny opening in Soul to dominate Stein's body.

As Stein climbs the rock face, Soul can finally rest a moment in the Black Room. He collapses into his ornate chair, resting his head over the top of the back rest. Little Ogre is changing records on the gramophone, already snapping his fingers off-beatedly before the music even starts.

"You take all the fun out of life," the demon says over his shoulder.

Soul only grunts in reply. He wonders if Stein's finger had been a call for backup. He fervently hopes so.

"Or the last will and testament of Doctor Franken Stein and Soul Eater Evans," Little Ogre chortles, reading his feelings and ever quick to dash his hopes.

"You act all nice and accommodating, but as soon as Maka's out of the picture you're just a little shit," Soul accuses.

The demon smiles, offering a shrug. "It's in my nature. Sue me."

On the outside, Stein makes an intrigued little laugh, which Soul has learned to become very alarmed when hearing such a thing. Its coming has generally been synonymous with something else that can obliterate them. Soul's consciousness rises to the surface.

He whines, "What  _now?_ "

Stein, with hands occupied, shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a shoulder. "Down below. They've upped their numbers."

Soul cant see with the blade anchored in the cliff, so he partially shapeshifts out of the handle, head and neck craning over Stein's shoulders to look to the ground. At first he only sees the average undulating mass of zombies, but then he realizes that they're not just dead human bodies anymore. Some have combined into diseased, multi-headed and limbed blobs. And there were animals. Lemurs and boars and birds and insects-

Insects in question are crawling up the plateau, behind them, followed closely by swarms of the flying variety as well.

Slightly skeptical, he asks, "Can zombie bugs kill us?" He transforms back into full weapon mode while Stein hums thoughtfully, bracing himself and swinging Soul higher into the cliff face.

"I know not. As tempted as I am to capture them for the sake of science, I don't want them crawling up my pants."

Stein picks up the pace, scaling the edge of the plateau in haste.

* * *

The witch might have been hot at some earlier point in life- maybe ten-fucking-thousand years ago. As is, she's scaly and wrinkly, and Soul wishes she were affiliated with any other creature than a  **harpy** , because some saggy things can simply not be unseen. He's grateful that it's dark out, though combined moonlight and the glow of witch magic is enough to traumatize him for life.

Her wings are molting, some parts of the limbs bare and puckered like plucked chickens. Her hair is silvering and matted, and he doesn't want to look to closely at her taloned feet. She's absolutely pissed at them, and she stalks nearby the large, flat boulder that Sid is bound to, throwing vulture-shaped curses and raising hundred-year-old corpses of animals and even wilted _plants_  from the ground for her cause.

He has to admit it's the first time he's ever been alarmed by vanilla beans and rice stalks, and he might never feel the same way about ice cream or Chinese food ever again.

Things are getting dicey. The old hag doesn't seem to tire. Stein calls for Resonance and Soul braces himself for the mental onslaught. The meister resorts to Witch-Hunting zombies off of the cliff to buy them a little time before the corpses come back to life, but the two of them are being herded away from Sid as wave upon wave of undead burrow out from the ground or scale the sides of the plateau to surround them.

The harpy is chanting bird names, magically tethering Sid to the earth. Vulture-shaped spells swan dive into the teacher, disappearing and making the boulder glow red hot, charging the ground with energy that produces more unnatural things that come after them.

Soul's head is in his hands in the Black Room, desperately trying to keep insanity from bubbling over. Little Ogre is cackling, running around like an uncontrolled toddler, ripping at the curtains and knocking over candles. To Soul's horror, a black liquid is seeping from the checkerboard tiles, slowly flooding the room. A puddle of it touches the edge of his shoe, and he can't stop the mad grin from splitting his face when it leaks inside and soaks his dress socks.

The moment his lips curl over his teeth, the demon's attention is fully on him, smiling eagerly in return. The black waters flow, sloshing up to Soul's shins and making the bottoms of the curtains swirl. He can't stop the random chuckles and barks of laughter that are forced from him, his wide eyes searching for some kind of escape.

He clamors on top of his piano, shaking what black blood he can off of his legs, though some of it still drips on the instrument, burning holes into the black gloss. He rests on his back, feet dangling over the keys. Little Ogre sloshes around in the waters, humming Singing In The Rain off-key. The grin is slowly fading off Soul's face, but he doesn't know how long he can keep this up.

He hears Stein on the outside, unintentionally sniggering as he swings Soul through a sickly combination of boa constrictor and Madagascan field worker. The hum of zombie insects swarming to them is nearly deafening.

He then hears the sound of dual pulse-cannons charging.

* * *

He's only half-listening as Death the Kid bombards Stein with questions while taking cover behind a Skull Shield. Stein is trying his best, but he keeps giggling. Soul wants to call out, to tell Kid to take him from Stein's hands and cease the Resonance, but he can't because he's stuck in the Black Room, snorting against his will.

Suddenly, Little Ogre's head whips around to stare into nothing, listening. Soul laughs, because that bulbous head is ridiculous, and what pitiful horns! But then the imp frowns, grumbling. Soul finally realizes why, becoming aware of a hand on his weapon form. A familiar, knowing palm plucks him out from the professor's now fully five-fingered grasp.

The comfort of Maka's gloved hands and the sudden release of Soul Resonance is like fresh air being abruptly shoved into his lungs. He can finally think somewhat clearly, rising out of the flooded room and to the surface. He shifts out of his weapon form and takes her into his arms.

Behind him, Spirit is arguing with Stein, who is twisting the knob in his head to keep up with the pace of conversation. They bicker like an old couple and not as if they were under threat of extreme zombie-death.

"I know bodily experiments are a touchy subject, sempai."  
"And whose fault is  _that!?_ "

The groaning of newly-risen zombies has reached a fever pitch, but all he can do is rest his head on Maka's shoulder. She smells of the sun and the long trip over the ocean. He suddenly remembers the link, and finds her end of it waiting patiently. Connecting is like putting on his favorite jacket or a clean pair of socks, both of which he misses terribly.

She can feel his utter exhaustion, and she's apologetic when she gently says, "Come on, Soul. We have a witch to hunt."

He only grunts, shifting back into the scythe and then into the flying mode as she urges him into the air. He is slightly refreshed, not having to worry about Stein's calculations and vectors, simply being able to be himself with her as they fly towards the harpy bitch. He hears something familiar from her through the link- an undercurrent of some kind of song that he can't quite place.

It distracts him so much that's he's forgotten to warn her about the state of the Black Room before they swoop in, dodging magic talons and beaks, and she calls for Resonance.

He only has time to say "Ah SHIT," before he's back in the dark room again, on his knees on top of the piano. Soul finds the room still flooded and in shambles, and he can't stop Maka in time as the demon leads her gentlemanly around tattered curtains and into the room.

On the outside, she's in mid swing, aiming for the witch in nearly-stopped time. He's supposed to be helping, changing into Witch Hunting, but on the inside, the blood is slowly flowing up her legs. Her face goes crazed, an amused chuckle gurgling out her mouth. Soul scrambles off the piano, trudging through the blood to get to her, though he doesn't know what he can possibly do. As he wraps his arms around her again, the blackness shifts, flowing from her and onto him instead. He's weaker, more susceptible- an easier target.

The floodwaters congeal and flow directly to him, like a drain in a sink. He is only audience to the actions of his mind's body, as he shoves her against a curtained wall, teeth gnawing on her neck. She's gasping, shocked, while Little Ogre snickers and climbs on top of the piano bench, swinging his legs happily while leering at the two of them.

Soul's whole body is turning black, covered in the blood- even his hands as they run up the sides of her uniform and fasten themselves on her perky little breasts. She makes dismayed noises in his mouth, feebly trying to push him away. He already has a hand underneath the trench coat and blouse when she suddenly stamps her foot down into the lingering puddles of dark water. The black blood shudders with her silent order, melting from him and collecting on her body in the form of the Black Dress. Abstract edges of it trail about, bleeding into the atmosphere like watercolor.

Suddenly freed from the overpowering madness, he backs away from her and folds up on himself, sitting on the floor in a heap. He puts a hand over his face in acute embarrassment. She roughly dusts the dress with her hands, annoyed. She looks formidable, with the edges of her skirting crackling thickly in power as she glares at him, rubbing a hand on the side of her neck.

As if what she had just done was not the singly most amazing, mind-bogglingly Maka thing ever, she walks over to the piano, heels clicking on the shining tiles. Little Ogre is pouting, dismayed at the effortless hold she has over insanity, and utters curses and other low-brow comments. The demon annoys Maka to the point of reaching out with an intangible arm of the dress, wrapping him like a cocoon in the fabric, and chucking him out between drawn curtains and a door that slams after him.

"He'll be back," Soul mutters from the tiles.

"After awhile," she says, tersely.

Soul, grateful for the silence and overwhelmed at the residual urge to completely ravage her, flops on to his back. He loves her. He's so very tired. He's probably pissed her off. She walks to the end of the piano and sits at the bench.

"You've worked hard," she comforts him. "There's only a little bit left to do."

He doesn't want to do shit except maybe fondle her on top of the piano. He grimaces when he remembers they can read the other's mind while Resonating. He risks a glance over at her to find her face flushed, her thoughts trying to keep them at the task at hand.

Should he apologize? Say he's terribly sorry for shoving her against the wall and drooling all over her neck? Though it's pretty much moot, as she already knows what's in his heart anyway. Words aren't needed here.

He hears a tinkling of those notes again, the ones he can't quite place. She's pecking them out on the keys of the piano of his soul. It's just the melody of it- the bass line missing. He finds himself on his feet, walking towards her like a bug to a flame.

He recognizes it now. The song is a scribble of a thought he'd had what seems like eons ago. It comes to him in a rush, the mere thought of it stirring the lower register keys to life though his hands aren't there to play them. Startled, Maka removes her hands to find the melody playing itself. Feelings shoot through her as she looks at him- the effort she'd put into learning to read sheet music, not being able to read any of his except this tiny lullaby, which she's treasured ever since.

He offers her his hand. In the one second that passes on the outside, Witch Hunting shrieks into life.


	14. Supermassive Black Hole

**Maka**

 

She takes his offered hand. All other forms of Soul Resonance have been child's play before this. She's regretful that their opponent is such a weakling before their might.

No, that's not good to think. That may be a hint of madness lurking between them. She hears the little imp cluck in dismay behind a closed door.

They dance to his lullaby in the flickering glow of candelight while outwardly she waltzes around razor-sharp talons, swinging her deadly blade behind her. The smell of rancid feathers invades her nose, along with decaying flesh and a hint of something like ozone- the sparking electric scent of magic.

Maka and Soul are hanging in mid-air, the finishing blow already set into motion. Her mouth is slowly opening, baring teeth and ready to let loose a snarl. Witch Hunting is massive with its curving, double-edged, shining blade that crackles with blood lust.

Away from the slow-motion slaughter, she and Soul dance together, though it's not so much a dance as it is a lazy shifting from foot to foot. Her mind keeps wandering to what had transpired minutes or moments or miliseconds ago (she doesn't know how to keep track of time in the reality-altering place that is the Black Room). She tries her best to not think about it- partly in embarrassment because her thoughts are wide open for him, but mostly because she doesn't want to mess up the battle in progress 'up top.'

It's no good though. The murmur of the sensations of Soul's teeth scraping unrestrained and crazed against the tendons in her neck bubble up, painting her face red and catching the attention of her partner.

She can't hide anything down here. The tails of her dress are a dead giveaway of her feelings- even while concentrating on resonating or dancing or the lullaby or how much taller he is than she when he's actually standing straight, the shadowy fabric flutters near him. It caresses his calves and weaves between his ankles formlessly, like smoke. He bemusedly takes a hand off her waist and holds it out, watching the tell-tale misting tendrils curl around his open fingers.

Maka stares at his hand, unable to pull her eyes away from the fingers she knows are adept at a countless amount of things.

 _"Fuck it,"_  he thinks suddenly, confusing her.

She's flustered and slightly startled as he pulls her more closely to his body, her dress-gloved hands that had been on his shoulders now pinned to his chest. Like a ghost at the keys, the piano behind her plays Soul's soft notes in a continuous loop without any assistance.

This is getting more intimate than she gives Soul credit for, and it makes her nervous. She wonders if he's still under the lingering influence of the black blood, and he hears her, sighing in her hair, murmuring "No," and then "Maybe," and then "Don't care."

His hands run along her hips, mist curling off the dress and twisting in his fingers. His thoughts are a murmur of growls or purrs- a jumble of emotions that have the aftertaste of possessiveness. Though she can't deny that his hands flip a switch inside her that sets her nerves on fire, she is a little overwhelmed and frightened. She doesn't know if it's really Soul acting this way or the demon pulling strings from behind a locked door.

She's not in control, here. Her panic is at odds with the calm lullaby from the piano. She pushes away from him, leaning back from his chest, but his arms wrap around her shoulders. She struggles in his grip, the top of her head butting into his chin.

" **Ow**. Maka... Maka wait. Hold on a minute-"

Outside, battle suddenly starts up again in a rush of real-time. She makes a mistake. Witch Hunting misses the harpy by not a small distance. Maka roars angrily, readying for the next swing, but there's another round of zombies in the way. She won't be able to use such an open move without endangering herself. The witch doesn't even care about her army as her spells mow through them directly towards Maka and Soul.

_"Please."_

Her focus is back in the Black Room, the battle outside back in slow motion again. The constant shifts in her perception of time are disorienting. Soul's arms are still around her, but they're loosening now the less she struggles.

Soul hardly ever says please. Frustrated as she is, he definitely has her attention.

Maka feels his anger at himself for being so needy. Yeah, maybe the blood is messing with him, but so is the jet lag, and hunger. He's starving for her. He's missed her so much that it disgusts him. Stein is horrible for him- all sharp, soul-less beats where she is flowing melody. And she's so near. He needs to only take another step forward to the black hole. That's why it's there, right? So he can fall in?

She's not really sure what he's thinking about anymore as he bombards her with his adoration, ceasing the slow dance and reaching with his hands to run his palms along her back and shoulder blades. He's ravenous for some better connection than this, even though up until a moment ago, this happened to be the most powerful Resonance to date.

Soul is arguing with himself, debating if he is fully in control of his actions or not. He thinks he is as he pulls the ribbons that contain her hair in tails, gathering the loosened locks in between his fingers and caressing the nape of her neck. Then again, maybe he isn't in control, because his hands are now hovering dangerously close to places he hasn't told them to go.

She's feeling alarmed again, her heart galloping in her chest. She shies away from his touch, to which he pleads "Don't. Don't fight me. While Resonating... you could get killed out there."

"Well then stop trying to  **unbutton my dress** ," she hisses, indignant. What the heck is that logic? He's totally taking advantage of the situation! She smacks him chest with her fists, and he looks away with a scowl.

_"Is it really that horrible?"_

The thought is quiet, and she almost misses it in the thundering of his frustrations.

Had he been wrong? Is this not what they have been dancing around their entire time together as partners? He doesn't know what to think anymore, because honestly, what he feels for her is as insane as the black blood itself. He doesn't know what he should do.

Maka is shaken by his frankness. To her lack of response, he starts to move away from her, but she keeps him close, her fingers digging into his jacket. She doesn't know what to say- she's confused, a little happy, still a bit scared, and mostly unprepared. The answer comes by itself, through the fog of her silence.

 _"Take the lead,"_  she thinks.

Her fingers cling shakily to the lapel of his suit. Not without a measure of skepticism, he leans closer to her carefully, like he's afraid she might change her mind. She doesn't know what to do with herself after basically relinquishing control to him, so she holds still when he cranes down and presses the side of his cheek to hers. The lengths of the dress swirl and shift restlessly as she feels his lashes slide against her skin, eyes opening, waiting for her to tell him to stop.

They're both a little surprised when he licks her, though it's not the first time today.

"Did you just...?"  
A hesitation. "Maybe."

Maka's not sure what to think, and neither does he, so he does it again anyway.  _"For science,"_  he silently offers. He crushes her even closer to him, his suit stretching and creaking with the movement, his breath heavy in her hair. The tip of his tongue lightly traces the outer curve of her ear.

Science, indeed. He's been hanging around Stein too much. Soul abstractly shares this sentiment, but is mostly preoccupied with his teeth and an earlobe. She shudders in his hold. His face travels to the crook of her neck. She anticipates his warm lips, but he freezes, wondering,  _"Are you fine with this?"_

He tries his best to not make his insecurity noticeable, but she can still taste it behind his question. Her breath hitches in a sigh into the collar of his suit jacket, "...maybe?"

Up top, Kid is firing another, final cannon blast to give them cover enough to use her attack, for the swing leaves her wide open in the process. Stein and her father are busy hacking toward Sid and his magic bindings, and inside, Soul leaves the faintest of languid licks on her jugular.

The lullaby is changing, turning into a darker, more mature piece that's she's heard before. It's the one he's been working on constantly- the one that gets stuck in her mind when she thinks of him.

 _"Is this allowed?_ " He silently asks again, though the words are headier, thicker, and fit to burst. Anything beyond this is entirely dependent of her answer. Give him the order, please, because he doesn't think he'll be able to ask coherently again.

"Do it," she orders before she can stop herself with second thoughts.

A small moment, and then the dam bursts. A feeling of diving, of surrendering, and a devoted  _"Yes, my meister."_

Soul takes a hand to keep her gloved ones pinned to his chest as he takes his other to- not painfully, but not without forcefulness- yank her jaw up and to the side.

"Don't know why'm so obsessed with your  _neck_ ," he growls along her skin, pinching with teeth and sucking the tender skin into his mouth. The choked gasp that escapes her makes him groan in return, the sound rumbling through his chest underneath her hands.

The sensations she feels urge him on, amplifying his own need to simply worship his technician. Its not without some irony that she finds she sounds like a zombie with the moaning he draws out from her. The piano's song is growing in volume, attacking notes viciously with intensity, while his tongue continues the dance on her neck.

Confessions spill from her lips and into his chest. Their connection draws tighter with each admittance. She's missed him too. It's too quiet at home without him. She can't sleep through the night without him there. She got nailed in the head by Kirikou because she was so worried (a growl and a kiss to her temple where the protective headgear had bit in). She'd made too much food for dinner. She'd been annoyed with anyone whose hair wasn't snow. She listened to piano concertos when lonely, but it hadn't been the same.

Their feelings are reaching absurd heights, their mutual attraction reflecting off each other and growing in tempo with every rebound. She's fully caught up in his craze, the current of him dragging her under. Soul Resonance is peaking again, perhaps even more powerful than it had first been. He bends her backwards over his arm, every place he nuzzles with teeth becoming hot. She realizes that the heat is the black blood responding to him, the fabric of her dress becoming sizzling liquid and revealing bits of her skin at different rates of exposure where he evaporates it with his fingers.

She'll never wield another. She'll never be this close to another.

Would he be this devoted out of the Black Room with a night's rest and the calm of daily life? Would he still be willing to run his hands along her hips, even if they didn't make her dress melt at his will? Dare she let herself become addicted to his touch- even if it is only a facsimile of it here?

"Yes, my meister," he whispers aloud, hovering near her mouth.

Maka finds that the Black Dress has made it to the outside, shielding her from the spells the harpy witch blasts at her. Kid's Death Cannon obliterates the undead blocking her path. She brings Soul down on the witch with an elegant and deadly flourish, slicing her explosively in two.

With his lips, he makes her feel how he never wants to serve another meister again, and that his life belongs to her so much that even his own blood protects her.

After the abrupt end of battle, Maka's perception of space and time resumes normally. Her mind is on overload, the end of Soul Resonance making her crumble to her knees before the floating, sickly orb of the witch's soul. The night air smells of burning feathers. After the collective earth-shaking sound of now-inanimate flesh collapsing to the ground, it is eerily silent. She's too overwhelmed by all that's happened in the past twenty minutes or twenty seconds, so Soul demurely shifts from her lax hands and to his own feet. He tiredly shuffles over in his usual posture and slurps up the soul as he always has- with a complete disregard for manners and a hearty groan.

Only now does the sound make her toes curl with anticipation inside her boots.

* * *

It's awkward as they fly north-west across Africa and into Europe. They should probably talk or something- set parameters or acknowledge that, even though it had only been in their connected minds, they had crossed a new line- but she doesn't want to talk over the howling wind rushing past her ears.

They had left the others behind on the island. Stein doesn't have a Grigori soul or any other form of transportation, so Kid had called in for a private jet and waited with the rest of the group. Soul had been adamant about going home immediately, wanting to be far, far away from 'The Shithole.' Maka had tried arguing that he should at least get a night's sleep before going across the Atlantic, but he had irritatedly assured her he was fine and shoved his weapon form into her hands, eager to leave.

Maka purses her lips in thought, dismayed. Hadn't he been all  _"Meister, yes my meister,"_  before? And now he's being a stubborn jerk. She's only worried about him! Plus she is pretty tired herself- she had just finished the long trip and hasn't had a chance to rest yet.

It seems that merely thinking about disaster can bring it to reality. In mid-air, Soul's weapon form shudders briefly. He's veering off to the right, listing downwards and she has to tighten her grip on the scythe handle to keep from sliding off.

"Soul! What's happening?" She yells over the wind, and becomes alarmed at his lack of response. He shudders again beneath her, and with a flash, he's human. She stares dumbfounded at his shoes. She's straddling his waist, backwards, but there's definitely no time to be mortified at their positions.

Soul is asleep.

They plummet at an angle, and she shrieks. Her legs clamp on him like a vice and she turns her back around to smack him in the face, eager to not die. The action makes them spiral, and she looses track of which way is up and down. He's awake with a start, and the look on his face clearly shows his questioning of reality with Maka sitting Reverse Cowgirl, spinning in mid-air. The sensation of falling then predominates his senses and waves of panic rush over the bond to collide with hers together in an eddy of chaos.

He clutches her hips in a death grip, and then realizing the situation fully, shifts into the scythe and then sloppily into flying mode. Running on pure adrenaline they right themselves, banking hard to the left and narrowly avoiding a group of trees and scraping Makas legs through a thick copse of underbrush. She has to duck low to the handle as they dodge hanging branches, leaves slapping and slicing her in the face like razors.

When they make it out the end of the small forest and into an open plain, they slow down, her feet touching the ground and jogging to a stop. Soul shapeshifts out from under her while her knees buckle and collapses for the second time in the past twenty-four hours, trying to catch her breath and keep herself from murdering her partner. Her shins complain at the rough field grass that digs into her burning legs, but she ignores them and covers her mouth with a hand, breathing deeply and trying to calm her nerves.

Soul is  _laughing._ It pisses her off before she realizes it sounds more out of distress than humor. He sits bonelessly and in a heap next to her, head in his hands.

"Christ," he says in between exhausted half-chuckles and groans, "-this is fucking ridiculous."

He looks at her over his shoulder worriedly. He grimaces when he sees the scrapes on her face. Soul shuffles over to her on his knees, reaching out with his hands to swipe dirt and blood from a particular cut under her eye. The touch instantly triggers a blush and tingling in her limbs. He's extremely apologetic through the bond, and even offers a 'my bad' before his head drops to her chest, finished with being awake.

At a loss, the best she can do is restrain herself from Makachopping him and maneuvering the both of them around so his head rests on her stomach as she lays back in the grass. She wonders how they managed to scrape by this far in life alive.

* * *

"Are you sure?"  
"Yes."  
"...Are you really sure?"

"Look, quit questioning me, woman," Soul snaps at her. He plucks dead grass from his hair before he shifts into weapon form. "I get it, we don't want a repeat of ...the incident."

"You mean the part where we fall out of the sky like a ton of bricks," she offers, taking him in her hands and mounting.

"I can make it to London," he says forcefully.

She doesn't want to believe him, her mouth set in a frown as she looks at him over her shoulder. His eye at the end of the scythe is glaring angrily at her, so they take off again, stopping in a nearby farming village and picking up a small meal.

They should have stayed with Kid and the others, and while flying she voices this sentiment constantly, mostly to keep him irritable and awake.

It's not as burning hot as it had been when they crossed the equator, but it is still uncomfortably warm in the afternoon sun with little to no cloud cover, and is still warmer than it had been at Madagascar. They stop once at the coast of Tunisia so they can stretch a little before crossing the Mediterranean, and twice more through France as Soul tires more frequently.

London is familiar to them, though not exactly comforting as it was the place they had encountered Free. They knew their way around there, at least, so it will be easy to find a place to stay and rest. Almost to their destination, Maka can see the lights of the city in the quickly-darkening evening light. She grips Soul tightly with her hands and with the bond, urging him to keep going.

"I'll carry you to a bed if I have to- just a bit further."

He doesn't even grunt and only offers the faintest hint of acquiescence in the bond. They make it to the south-east outskirts of London, and Soul muddily shapeshifts out of the scythe as soon as they're on the ground. Deep down, she can feel his indignation at his weakness, and a bit of shame in putting his meister in danger, but she assures him that he's worked very hard and deserves some rest. She drapes his arm over her narrow shoulders and leads him towards the city lights.

They hitch a ride with a very wary, but otherwise accommodating old man in a small pick-up truck who had seen them walking down the side of the road. Maka rides in between the two of them, much to Soul's groggy dismay. Maka rests a hand on her partner's knee and, reassured, he smashes his face into the passenger window, beginning to snore. The old man asks where they need to go.

She explains no particular destination other that an open room to stay in.

"He on the drugs?" The old man asks after awhile. Maka laughs despite herself.

"No, no... he's had a rough couple of days. Just needs a meal and a bed."  
"If you don't mind me saying, you don't look very far behind him."

Maka glances at herself in the rear-view mirror in front of her. She spies her reflection whenever they pass underneath a street lamp. Her face is a mess, chapped from being wind-bitten and she thinks her nose may be sunburned. There are still dried bits of blood from plowing through trees earlier that day.

"You're probably right, but he's done enough. It's my turn now," she says.

The street lamps and lights from passing cars give her vertigo.


	15. Minerva

**Soul**

 

Soul runs his hand along the wall of the hallway. The rough plaster on his palm gives him some focus as he trails behind Maka to the room she's purchased. The hotel is no longer in its prime, but it smells clean and has a quiet class that comes from the rugs and the furniture that speak of former glory. It makes him think of old manor houses with lion-footed tubs and music rooms with shining grand pianos.

The doors to the rooms still use actual metal keys as opposed to magnetized plastic cards. Maka is still fumbling with the lock to their room by the time he catches up with her. She looks pale and unsteady, and maybe that's what spurs him awake enough to put his hand over hers and guide it to the keyhole. She makes a happy little sigh at the sight of the bed, shuffling to it and collapsing. The mattress is old, and it bounces her comically.

He shuts the door behind him. They both look like they've been hit by a train. He grapples with the buckles of her boots, yanking them off while she groans first in irritability and then in relief. His shoes join them loudly at the foot of the bed, and he can no longer resist the pull to join her.

She groans that the world keeps spinning, so he rests his hand on her head, drowsily tangling a pigtail in his fingers. He doesn't know if it helps, but she breathes deeply.

* * *

When he wakes up, he's conscious in an instant, because a segment of music is repeating in his head and he needs to write it down before it floats away. He rolls off the bed, finding his legs numb from hanging off the edge of the mattress all night. He stumbles into a dresser, resting his weight on his hands while he cringes as his legs wake up with pins and needles down to his toes.

There's a pocket-sized notepad in front of him, emblazoned with the hotel's seal in golden shimmering relief. He hobbles around to find a pen, pulling empty drawers and nearly smacking himself in the face when he finds one that he had blindly overlooked not two feet from where he'd found the notepad.

He's adding the last measure he can remember when someone knocks on the door. He realizes he's been at it awhile, ink from the tiny pen smeared all over his fingers. There's at least four crumpled sheets where he's written the new part down wrong, and staff lines with a murder of notes are written on the front and back of the handful of tiny papers that have survived.

As he straightens up from his hunched position over the dresser to go answer the door, his back stiffly screams in protest. He rubs at his lower spine with the knuckles of one hand while he flips the deadbolt. It's the maid service, sweetly offering towels and other toiletries. The woman is a large, rounded thing, with a facial structure that is uniquely European but he can't exactly point out how. After taking a glance at him, she looks a little startled at his appearance- more so than the usual gawk at his hair and eyecolor- and he looks down at himself to decide, yeah, he's been wearing these clothes awhile and perhaps looked less than par.

Can't hurt to ask. "Do you have a laundry service?"

The woman recovers, blinking rapidly. "Yes sir, I can take your belongings and have them washed-"

Soul plucks at his shirt, "And if I have nothing else to change into?"

The maid's eyebrows raise up. "Or, I can offer you a robe and you can call room service any time to, erm, assist you," she says with a light tint to her cheeks. He has to sort through her thick accent to realize that either he's just said something sexually insinuating, or she may be offering something he doesn't precisely want to consider too closely.

"Be needing two of those," he deadpans, opening the door a little wider to reveal his sleeping meister whose skirt is currently riding dangerously high up her thigh.

Tossing the robes to the dresser, he shuts the door in the maid's affronted face. He doesn't know if Maka has any spare clothes to change in to. A quick rummaging through drawers and a closet doesn't reveal any obvious answers. He doesn't recall seeing her with a pack or bag, but then again, he doesn't remember a lot of things. The events of the entire mission are a big convoluted mess, and he hasn't had the time to ponder over all the little details.

At least not the ones that hadn't involved Soul Resonance, anyway.

He debates on waking her up to tell her to take a shower (which would probably end with a Makachop to the face), or to let her sleep some more while he takes one himself. The latter seems infinitely safer and more satisfying. He'd lost his duffel when his bike had crashed, and he's felt grimy ever since. He meanders into the adjoining bathroom, scoffing at the sight of the ornate room.

"Well fuck me. A lion footed tub," he mutters to himself. He walks by it in lieu of the more modern-looking shower, breathing and half-humming to himself in tempo of the song he writes. Soul fumbles with tiny travel-sized bottles of complimentary shampoo and takes the best shower he's had in a long, long time, washing away layers of dirt and zombies and Stein.

Mostly Stein. Never again. Teaming with Stein is like putting on his pants backwards. It just isn't right. That guy is seriously twisted. Soul wouldn't be surprised if the whole Madagascar escapade had merely been a set up- the professor purposely having Sid kidnapped for a change of pace, using his co-worker, Soul, and himself as guinea pigs. A vacation  _for science.  
_  
On the subject of science, he pauses in mid-scalp scrub. That had been his excuse for licking Maka. Licking. Like a fucking dog, for crying out loud. He's possessed. It's the only explanation, and it's even  **true.** Curiouser still, she had stood there and let him. And then things had become  _interesting...  
_  
Soul finds himself still paused in scrubbing his hair, so he continues with haste. Her body was all- ah, and her  _hips._ He doesn't have a hope in hell to keep his sanity at the prospects of her hips in his hands. She'd been submissive to his touch- the idea of which lights him so much on fire that he has to reach back behind him and turn the water to ice.

The coldness is a shock to his system- enough of one that stirs Maka through the link, groggily coming alive.

 _"Keep it cool. Don't get too full of it,"_ he thinks to himself. There is one major difference between the Black Room and the real world: experience. In the Black Room, all one has to do is want and be rewarded. It doesn't matter that he's never actually touched a woman like that before- his body  _is_  his mind. What he thinks is what he gets.

In reality, there's the middle man of his body and its experience. Like trying to paint a picture from the imagination and having it turn out nothing as desired, he could seriously fumble. He doesn't feel ready. He doesn't want to make an ass of himself.

He  _definitely_  doesn't want to hurt her. The Black Room proves that if he should want to take advantage of her, she would absolutely let him. Beyond how bewildering (and admittedly sexy) that piece of information may be is the fact that there would be no damage control. Unless she plainly demands it of him, he can't see himself touching her without doubting if it's what she really wants. He might rush it. He might force her. He won't do that to her.

He can only serve.

Maka calls for him through the Soul Chain with a disoriented clinking of C-sharp minor that jump starts the music again.

* * *

Wearing a bath towel because he's forgotten his robe in the other room, he dials up Sir Head Skull-Cheese in the steam of the bathroom mirror, belatedly realizing London is eight hours ahead of Death City. Shinigami is still surprisingly chipper while wearing a night cap with a plush Jolly Roger dangling off the end of it. Soul idly wonders if the idea of the headmaster sleeping is just a cover that the death god employs.

"Soul-kun! You are still in one piece I see, that's wonderful!"

Soul grunts in confirmation. "We had to make a stop in London," he starts, but Shinigami cuts him off.

"I'm sure the both of you are tired and not without a degree of jet lag. A-Okay! Take a rest. We'll check up on you later!"

With that, the mirror abruptly shimmers and Soul finds that he's staring dumbfounded at himself. He had been planning on giving a mission report, but it appears Shinigami-sama has already figured out everything. It gives him the creeps. He hopes that by 'check up on' he hadn't meant Spirit dropping in and murdering him for being on the same damned planet as his daughter.

Whatever. He takes the tube of complimentary toothpaste and squirts some on his finger. He'll have to do a bit of shopping later after their clothes come back from cleaning, which he still needs to send off in the first place. He opens the bathroom door with his finger still squeaking along his teeth. Maka is sitting on the bed, shrugging out of the long jacket she's slept in through the night.

He says around a foamy finger, "Gimmeyerclothes."

She squints at him with a wary glance, her arms still half inside the trench coat's sleeves. "What?"

"Gimme. Your. Clothes," he enunciates for her, frothy particles escaping his mouth and falling into the carpet.

"That's what I thought you said...I have nothing to change in to after a certain  _swan-dive_  into an African forest relieved me of my bag," she sneers.

Cringe. Yeah. He'll have to go shopping. He points to the two partially-folded robes sitting in a heap on the dresser, and returns to the bathroom to spit. When he looks up from the sink, Maka's standing behind him with a robe in hand. She looks like she's been run over with the aftermath of angry welts on her legs and dried beaded blood on her face. She also looks like she still needs five more years of sleep and he imagines that this is what he must have looked like not long ago. It's a guilt trip he's only half-prepared for. He faces her, quietly telling her to get cleaned up and that he'll take their clothes to get washed.

Maka eyes the free standing tub with interest, plodding over to it and jerking the handle of the faucet to full pressure. She finds a tiny bottle of body wash and pours its entire contents into rising water. With an implied glare over her shoulder, she starts to haul her blouse over her head.

Right. That whole naked thing. He averts his gaze, biting the inside of his cheek. He hears the rustling of cloth, which he tells himself he shouldn't be focusing on for the sake of the towel wrapped around his waist. She chucks her clothes into his face before climbing into the tub with a hiss when the soap gets into the scrapes on her legs, and a sigh when she doesn't care anymore.

He leaves, dressing in his own robe. After calling room service and being thankful that it's a man that comes up to take their clothes and not the large woman from before, he pokes his head in the bathroom to find Maka still in the bath, blankly staring at the ceiling. Throwing fear of her irritation to the wind, he washes her hair. She merely moans at his ministrations. After the wash, he hands her a towel and helps her step out of the high sides of the tub.

Looking away as she dons her robe, he helps her up on to the bathroom counter, examining her legs. Most of the wounds are superficial, but he dresses the worst of them with the band-aids that are in the room's minimal first-aid container. There's not much he can do for her face- most of the scrapes are negligible except for the one slice under her eye that a bandage would only irritate. He cleans them as best he can, her eyelashes tickling his fingers as he swabs at her face with a damp cloth.

Their closeness has somehow triggered something. Some kind of signal is going off and her side of the link is reaching towards him with a racing heart despite herself. Over her shoulder, he spies them in the mirror- the two of them in matching terrycloth like a couple on a vacation or honeymoon. Her breath is warm on his wrist.

Soul backs away from her slowly, finished with her face, and he doesn't look her in they eyes when he says, "That's all."

The link slowly sinks, the feelings from a moment ago drifting and dissipating.

It's all he can confidently do. He can only serve.

* * *

They're in the dining area of the hotel in freshly pressed clothes. It's the most un-wrinkled his Spartoi uniform has ever been. They sit together in a booth, and it's more than just an overprotective habit that he's herded her into the seat closest to the wall while he sits adjacent to the aisle. She slouches into the polyester, her long legs stretched out and resting on the seat across the table. Her head is lolling to the side, resting on his shoulder. They're the only people here- their body clocks so skewed that it's sometime between lunch and dinner as a waiter stands at Soul's right with a notepad in hand.

"What would you like? Steak? Fish? Chicken?"

At the sound of chicken, Maka makes a sickened groan into his arm.

"Uh, nothing related to chicken. Or anything that's had feathers." At the confused look the waiter gives him, he adds, "We had...uh-"

'-to slice open an ancient decaying bitch with wings and diseased bird feet while we were surround by rotting corpses,' is what he  _could_ say, but settles for "We had an experience. Recently. How 'bout soup. We like soup, right?" He shoots to his partner. She whimpers lightly in his sleeve. "And a salad."

When the waiter leaves, Maka mumbles beside him.

"You're acting funny," she accuses. The link is sluggish as it prods at him, and he swats it away with a thinly disguised measure of defensiveness.

"Me? Look at you," he grumbles. "You look like you're barely making it through a hangover."

She groans again. "If this is what a hangover is like, then I'm never going to the drinking parties you and Black*Star have."

"Like you're invited. Those are man parties, alright? No tits allowed."  
"But I don't have tits. You said so."

To his irritated silence she chuckles sinisterly. "Oh ho? What  _now?_  Which is worse- me attending your precious _man party,_ or being forced to compliment my breasts?"

Looking down at her darkly, the view giving him a clear shot down her shirt, he has to admit to himself that okay, fine, they existed- in fact he's felt them numerous times, including in the Black Room- but he doesn't have to admit that to  _her._  Luckily he's saved by the waiter sliding a bowl of salad across the table, at which Maka groans again.

He takes a fork and stabs a bit of greenery and teasingly holds it in front of her mouth.

"Open up. Maybe the vitamins will keep your mosquito bites from shrinking even smaller."

His babying irritates the daylights out of Maka. Ever adept with long-handled implements, she steals the fork from him, shoves the food in her mouth, and with a twirl, thwaps him on the knuckles. He shakes his hand a bit before digging into his soup.

* * *

He deftly shoves his hands in her trench coat's pockets. Maka squeals and kicks him in the shins while he digs around, searching for the Academy-issued mission credit card he knows she has, because she paid for their lunch-dinner-thing. He placates her with promises of toothbrushes and reading material as she exasperatedly waves him off and collapses back into bed.

Without any outward appearance of glee, because cool guys don't get excited to go shopping, Soul walks around local markets picking up spare changes of clothes and other things they've collectively lost over the mission. Holder of way too much information, he knows the general size of his meister (toothpick), so finding the basic 'I'm Maka and I wear generic schoolgirl clothes' isn't exactly a harrowing task. He also knows which books she already owns, as the majority of them have collided with his face at some point in time.

He also finds a sweet-assed leather jacket which he charges to the Academy's bank account with a feral grin.

Upon returning to the hotel room, he holds out a book wrapped in brown paper.

"As much as I dislike putting a future weapon in your hands, here." Maka, who had been disinterestedly flipping through the local channels on the television, tosses the remote behind her carelessly, taking the parcel from him with a grateful look on her face.

She's lazy, reading her book and flopping around on the bed every few pages to get comfortable. He sets the clothes he's bought for her on the bed, and she thumbs through them quickly and gives him a distracted "Thanks," returning to the novel. Her legs slowly swing in the air, toes twitching and curling absently as she rests on her stomach, engrossed in the book.

He rests on his side of the bed, grimacing when he finds the remote control between his shoulder blades. He takes it and flips the television back on, aimlessly cycling through the stations. A glance towards her shows that she at least looks less pale, and the book makes her mind more energetic than she had been earlier. The companionable silence is welcome, even if her emotions are absorbed by her book and he can almost grasp the plot by her reactions through the link.

It's sap. Sap with probably a measure of smut by the looks the book store employee had given him earlier. He can't keep himself from listening closely to link, trying to pinpoint if or when she gets to a particular steamy bit. It's a wry feeling of curiosity, but it's not like he has anything better to do. After another quick glance to make sure she's oblivious, he relaxes, trying to open the link wider to feel her more clearly. He can't read her thoughts, but he can taste the general idea of them as long as she thinks them with any fragment of emotion.

His relaxed state allows him to get a broader grasp of her, and Soul ends up finding that through the more open connection he can hear the new pieces of music he had only just written down earlier this morning. It flows through her, and he notices her legs swing in time to the beat.

He wonders if she realizes it at all. He wonders how often he friggen broadcasts his internal radio stations. He wonders how the next movement of the piece should go- if it should go slower or faster or become quiet as a lullaby. One that they shall dance to, swamped in that dress, candlelight reflecting off her skin and the glassiness of her eyes-

Eyes that, as he opens his own, are peering at him over the edge of a book. Soul had evidently dozed off. Why is she like a tomato?

Maka's eyes flicker, a hint of a movement that he would have missed if he weren't her weapon and if the link hadn't been swamped in mortification. He looks in the direction they had gone. There's a tent in his uniform.

"Damn it all to hell."

He'll admit it. He's frustrated. What can a guy do after a week of seeing her naked on multiple occasions and shoving his tongue in her mouth and chewing on her neck and desperately pouring his soul into her in the most gratifying twenty-eight seconds of his life in the Black Room. She's a fuckin' tease without even trying!

He glowers at her, and she nervously stares at her book though he knows perfectly well that she isn't continuing the story.

"I blame you for this," he mutters, flipping to his other side and turning his back to her. In the next moment, he realizes that perhaps he's said something wrong as he hears her smack her novel closed with a  _'crack.'_ He chances a look behind him and gets a heavy, down-filled pillow directly in the face. _  
_  
He's disoriented, his nose stinging from the impact, and she takes advantage of it, climbing over the bouncing bed to him and shoving him on to his back. As he pulls the pillow from his face, he gets a view of so-white-it-hurts cotton when she swings her left leg over to his right side, straddling him. She thoughtfully avoids sitting on his erection, but is still so ridiculously close that he can feel the heat of her.

Forget being cool. Any man should be allowed to splutter in this kind of situation.

"What the fuck are you doing," he demands, not being able to hide more than eighty percent of the alarm in his voice.

She replies with a Makachop, the force of impact making her book fly from her hands and clattering to the floor with a flurry of fluttering pages. He sees stars behind his eyelids while she grabs the pillow and shoves it back into his face. Soul Chain is going haywire: she's angry, she's self-conscious, she's scared, she's steeling herself. Moaning, he grabs the pillow and drops it on the floor, away from her. Maka is wrestling with his uniform shirt, trying to yank what's tucked into his pants out of the way. The bit of cloth near his erection gets freed first, and a hiss loudly escapes him, his entire body a piano string drawn taut. It makes his legs jerk up, his knees knocking her forward and making her shift over him, her crotch applying more pressure than he's prepared to handle with a straight face.

She's flushing, mortified at her own actions but too stubborn and determined on finishing only the gods knew what.

Wait, is she doing what he  _thinks_  she's doing?!

She's fumbling with the buckle of his belt. His body is screaming to just  _hold the fuck still_  because something amazing is about to happen, but everything is wrong. The look on her face isn't sexy at all, and he gets a sudden jab of guilt when he sees the angry cut under her eye that he is responsible for. A glance sideways reveals what he's suspected: the scrapes on her shins must still be tender, because she's resting her weight on the balls of her feet and the tips of her knees. Another jab of guilt, followed by a left hook: The belt buckle rattles loudly in her shaking hands.

It dawns on him. She feels obligated to do this for him.

As much relief that may be brought to his straining erection should she continue to unzip his pants, he grabs her gently by the wrists. Her eyes snap to his in surprise. She tries to sound offended when she says in a wavering voice, "What, am I doing it wrong?"

"Yes."

Perhaps that was blunt. The link shudders in shock. He transfers her wrist in his right hand to his left, to hold both in his grip while he uses his free hand to help him slide out from underneath her. He does it slowly, because she could take anything the wrong way, and fleeing from her in a rush would definitely be included. Her eyes are a little teary. She's frustrated and angry and confused and blurts out things like "This is what comes next, right?" He brushes his crumpled shirt back down over his torso while he swings his legs out of the way to kneel in front of her.

Her eyes keep being dragged down to his crotch, so he sourly grabs the spare pillow from behind him, putting it in his lap and blocking her line of sight.

"Aren't I supposed to... you haven't been.. I thought that maybe I wasn't being-" She can't finish any of her sentences, but between what he knows of her and the link, he can fill in the blanks. She doesn't understand him, she knows he wants to do things with her but he hasn't so much as looked at her that way since Madagascar. She's here, waiting to be ravished or whatever, but he ignores every opportunity! He had said 'Yes, my meister,' but he turns his back on her, so she thought that maybe she had to do something herself.

There she goes again, trying to take things into her own hands.

Releasing her wrists, he places his hands on her shoulders with an exasperated sigh, bowing his head and slouching.

"Do you not want me to...that?" She asks in a voice so small and painfully sweet that it stabs him. It will make his teeth rot and fall out if he isn't careful. Soul raises his head and gives her a look that clearly reads 'Are you stupid?' She only looks confused in reply.

He glances away from her, embarrassed. "Can't say I hadn't thought about it. But this way...s'not right," he lowly mutters. She tenses up beneath his fingers, her breath cut short. Misunderstood again. With a grimace, he pulls her to him. It only seems like she understands him if she's smashed to his chest. Or maybe he can only say the correct things when he can't be scrutinized by her eyes.

His doubt had been amplified in her, moving her to the point of making herself do something that she isn't prepared for. He's been over-thinking shit again. He should have known better. He hadn't even noticed. How uncool.

"Listen. I don't expect you to-" he sighs. "Don't force yourself."

A small silence. She tucks her chin closer to her chest, her hair scraping against the fabric of his shirt. "I wanted to...," she covers her mouth with a palm in dilemma, "-to do something for you, nonetheless," she quietly admits.

He can't stop the corner of his mouth from quirking up smugly. "Wanting is good, but... ehhh being ready is different. What were you  _thinking_? _"_

"Third base is next," she blurts out, her words muffled in her hand.

"...Hahhh?"

She removes her palm so he can better hear her words. "Tongue then groping then oral. Third base."

"When did we--?"  
"Pill."  
"But-"  
"And then yesterday, in the Black Room."

"How does....  _What the fuck kind of book did I buy you?"_  He pulls back from her, bewildered. The situation is so awkward he could kill himself, but she looks just as uncomfortable, her face boiling straight past tomato and into eggplant category. What a little closet pervert! She chews on her bottom lip, and he can't stop himself.

"Totally not legit," Soul mutters. He demands compensation for all these 'bases' that they seemed to have accomplished without his acknowledgement, so he takes it from her mouth.


	16. Doesn't Look A Thing Like Jesus

**Maka**

 

This is dangerous. She fervently wishes her heart would settle on one emotion and stick with it for more than five seconds, but it keeps stretching in every direction, heedless to her desire.

It's tempting to pull on the comfortable skin of indignation.  _He's just as much of a virgin as she is!_  How is he to know when she is or is not ready for something? The dark acknowledgment of his being absolutely right aside, what kind of high horse is he on to deny her and then turn around and french her? She knows these feelings well- they fit her like a glove, especially when it comes to dealing with Soul. They're her wall of hiding deeper things- a habit that she has already decided to give up in lieu of being more honest about her feelings.

She is admits that any offense she may feel is merely a cover up of her own insecurities. Her nervousness, meekness, and her lack of experience are all as obvious as a supernova, and she feels little tugs of jealous curiosity as to just how he manages to make her feel this _good_  if he is as inexperienced as she. To these feelings, he only growls into her neck (an apparent favorite spot now), assuring her along the bond that he knows not what he does. Every instinctual contact between them is a first for him, and will never be meant for anyone else. He is at her mercy.

Maka begs to differ.

Even deeper, below indignation and insecurity, are her more primal feelings that she is not used to handling near as well as the other beats her heart thrums to. They're a heavy, sensual lewdness that focus on heat, sound and touch that she fights out of habit but is surely losing against. Her chapped lips are at  _his_  mercy. Her hair is helpless to his heavy breaths. Her body is defenseless to his arms that wrap around her as strongly as his bond entwines itself with her. His fingertips possessively press into the wings of her shoulder blades, searing her skin through the fabric of her blouse as effectively as a brand. The signal of these emotions are too powerful to not broadcast loudly over the bond, and Soul feeds from them, reacting and tuning himself in to better hear the groans he draws from her mouth.

Like the music he meticulously writes in impeccable hand on crumpled napkins and faded receipts, he's a carefully-planned mess. For every one part brashness, he is ten parts dangerously heart-pulling chivalry. Soul courteously dances around any signs of displeasure as he nips wetly at her jawline. He requires a certain amount of shiver, a particular degree of moan- gauging her approval before the next move, and the next. He's politely crude while delicately rampaging every nerve ending she owns.

The bond is a grappling hook, and he's pulling on her, or maybe it's she who does the yanking, bringing him closer to her so that his devotion and his amazement at the sheer overwhelming amount of his love for her is loud and lung-crushing. Heart strings pulled taut, she could nearly cry at how those expansive emotions are slowly bleeding into his cool mask, creeping into a desperate tilt of eyebrows or a needy curve of his lips or an uncertain peek of flustered eyes between absurdly long lashes.

They're falling, plummeting down into a heavy blackness of hardly controllable need. It's too hot to be pressed up against him, but she can't pull away. Completely dangerous. She thinks it should be more frightening than this, but then again it is he with her- the one whose touch she has craved for countless days and nights. Soul with his ever-guiding hands at her back, supporting her, keeping her warm, gently shifting her to sit on his pillowed lap with a bit-back hiss at her weight. Burning hands run up along her thighs, ruffling her skirt to her hip bones, memorizing her curves.

He shoots a heated look up at her from her breasts, his chin jutting into the folds of the red tie of her sailor's collar. Unwavering eyes permanently fixed to her face, his hand moves slowly away from her left to the pillow separating them. A light pull, a tentative nudge through the bond, and she shifts her weight to her knees, raising up just an inch. The bed creaks deeply beneath them, the sound intimate and spurring her heart to a gallop. The soft pillow case tickles her thighs, and she remembers the fleeting but excruciatingly curious contact she'd had with this part of him minutes ago, awaiting the experience again as he cautiously removes the barrier. The pillow drips out of his hand to the floor to keep her book company, and a blood-curdling scream abruptly shatters their anticipation.

They share a frozen, deer-in-the-headlights moment. Was that her  _father_  in the bathroom?

"Please heavens, no," she whispers, horrified. The hype is fading, the breathless closeness of the bond dissolving.

She hears muffled, muted voices behind the half-closed bathroom door. Spirit and Shinigami-sama bicker over whether or not they have dialed the correct address. Soul uncomfortably bangs his forehead into her sternum, his hand that had been gripping her waist like a lifeline falls limply to her hip. He's chanting an extensive collection of curses interspersed with 'I fucking knew its,' his hair tickling her chin.

Still hovering over the radiating heat of his problem that she can feel even through the layers of their clothing and the space between them, Maka primitively considers grinding down anyway. However, after another anguished, tile-reverberating cry of her name, she disentangles herself from Soul sheepishly. She's more than a little confused, unwinding her arms that have somehow managed to appear around his neck and jerking her mysteriously caught foot from the bed covers while climbing off of his lap. She notes his lingering hand that travels down her leg as she moves away. His grip is still firm on her through the bond, still in denial at the recent change in events. She tries to straighten her skirt, hurriedly making her way to the bathroom to keep her father's voice from alarming everyone else in the hotel.

It could be worse. It could definitely be a  _hell_  of a lot better. She nudges the bathroom door open with a foot, flicking on the lightswitch. An over-sized image of her father's face pressed up against glass shrinks back hurriedly, squinting at the flourescence.

"Darlingface!"

"Shush! It's late here! People are trying to sleep," she hisses angrily. "Shinigami-sama," Maka bows politely if not grimly as an afterthought.

"Maka-chan, yo! Sunburned?"

To the seemingly from-left-field inquiry, she glances at her reflection in a nearby medicine cabinet. She's heavily flushing from cheekbones to cleavage, and she internally stabs at Soul with blame. She hears him snort behind a hand from the bedroom as she spies an irritated patch of skin on the side of her neck, already starting to bruise. She nonchalantly combs her fingers through her hair to cover her  _first hickey ever, that smug bastard,_  as she hums in affirmative.

"Yes... from the flight here," she offers.

The death god's blank stare is easy for her to read although he has no obvious features. Blank, lifeless holes already see through her. More importantly, Shinigami-sama knows  _hasn't_ dropped any hints to her father who is clucking like a distraught mother hen, advising sun screen and murdering her weapon as preventative measures for skin cancer.

"Where is that little cretin anyway?" At her father's remark, she feels a jolt of offense from Soul.

"He's...erm," to buy time, she moves partly away from the mirror, leaning around the corner of the bathroom's door frame. Out of view, she shoots Soul a worried grimace. He's shaking his head vigorously, pointedly indicating the pillow still across his lap and then gesturing to the bathroom and then his head being decapitated, tongue lolling. She blushes further, but opens a palm wide, imploring him for an excuse. Soul exasperatedly slaps his hands together, putting them to a cheek like a furious napping toddler.

She leans back into the bathroom. "He's asleep," she says a little too stiffly.

Spirit looks skeptical, but Shinigami is quick to the punch. "Excellent! You should get to bed yourself, Maka-chan. We'll be sending a jet out to you in the morning so your  _poor face_  won't have to suffer more of the blistering sun. I expect you both to be back in class, fresh and recovered by Tuesday, yes? The end of semester is nearing, after all."

Crap. The shock of that forgotten fact is enough to hide her embarrassment and gratitude behind. She bows graciously. Her father is still trying to slide in last-minute murder advice while the headmaster nods at her almost imperceptibly before a slight wave of his hand darkens the mirror abruptly. Her reflection greets her, flustered but relieved. Maka leans once more out the doorway, catching Soul shifting his legs out from underneath him and flopping back into the bed, digging his palms into his eye sockets in aggravation. He's groaning in monotone, and she can't decipher it until she's close enough to the bed to pick out the words.

"I am cool and do not give a shiiiiiiit~"

* * *

"Terrified he's gonna burst through the ceiling at any moment," he whines into the back of her neck.

After awkwardly getting ready for sleep, changing self-consciously in the bathroom into a new button-down he had bought (to his dismay), and climbing into the bed with a painfully prudish amount of space between them, he had prodded her shoulder with a finger and a sigh. Through choppy trying-to-be-cool words and disgruntled, revealing waves through the bond, he explained that he'd rather be embarrassed holding her than awkwardly not touching her at all.

Now her back is pressed against his chest, his face cradled at her hairline, enough covers between them to make her unsure of what is or is not pressed up against her rear. The room is dark save for the green glow of a digital alarm clock in front of her. Maka's been staring at it for awhile, but she is yet to decipher the alien squiggles into numbers- her mind is too focused on him to spare an extra synapse. His shirt that she wears smells like starch.  _He's not wearing one at all._ His breath is a light hint of mint that brushes over her skin as he complains about her father.

"You  _are_  afraid of him, aren't you," she quietly teases, surprised she can still manage speech.

"Hell no. Afraid of dying from blue balls."

She's a little mortified, but she bursts out laughing anyway. He grumbles that her giggles shake him and the bed, which only make it harder to stop. Annoyed, he lightly snaps at the curve of her neck with his teeth. It's no more than a phantom pinch, and she freezes not out of shock, but out of the inability to be positive it had actually happened. Laughing abruptly stopped, she's back to analyzing their current state of ...whatever it is they are.

Apart from abstract confessions, neither of them had really come out to say "Hey, I'm in love with you, lets do that whole romance thing." Is that legal? She wants it to be. She also wants to flip off all their dancing around the subject and find her apparently-missing courage and just say it already.

However, it's debatable if those words are even needed. She knows. He knows. To ask for verbal confirmation could even be considered offensive after putting their lives on the line for each other over the years.

More immediately confusing, he's displaying an amazing amount of restraint, and she's not sure for whose sake. They could absolutely do it, right now, far away from their peers and family and obligations. Sure, there are logical things that  _could_  be holding them back- needing sleep, needing to not be so lust-driven, needing a ... _condom-_

She needs to stop thinking. If she got a bloody nose he would never let her live it down.

Soul takes a hand and presses it to her ear with a hollow pat. "You're thinking too loud," he murmurs. "Let me savor this." To accentuate his words, he shifts his legs behind her, his knees fitting into hers like a puzzle. His hand on her ear moves to her side, slithering around her stomach to dig underneath her securely. Laving at the back of her neck with his tongue like some kind of animal, he starts a form of languid torture. He riles her up with nuzzles and wetly-written designs, only to stop when her heart feels ready to burst. In the quiet dark, when it seems that sleep will come after all, he starts again, a lazy kiss in her hair or a gravelly sigh in her ear. He grunts at her shivers and how they makes his body shift, but she can feel his lips curling into the lightest of smiles on her skin.

Cruel and unusual. That smug bastard.

His soul drifts into music, picking apart raw notes and placing them into a pattern she knows. A lullaby that melds slowly into his piece for the both of them. She wants to know how it will end, and if it will be as moving to her heart as unsaid words and soothing breath. The plan all along had been to simply bask in this warmth, hadn't it? There's no rush. She will lean back and let it all bake in, to not let a single lick of flame escape.

* * *

Spirit's face is a stony glare at the sight of Soul's wrist being tugged along in her hand as they board the small private plane. The jet is a white, nondescript job, but she can see little hints of Shinigami's personal touch from the interior behind Spirit's bodily barricade. Her father is reluctant to let Soul board, but he's forced to stand aside to let Maka pass, towing her partner behind her. The man's gaze follows them tirelessly, even while preparing for takeoff. His surveillance grates on her nerves as she clicks together two sides of a skull-shaped seat belt buckle.

She knows Soul wants to bait him, to make him explode and start yet another immature war of name calling and insinuations about her and her body, but he only stares out the small window he's seated next to, tight-lipped and brooding. Maka wants to ask him what's stopping him, but she doesn't want to accidentally start a retard-contest. His only act of defiance towards her father he takes is moving the armrest that separates him from her up and out of the way. The statement makes her father splutter from across the aisle, and she can practically see Spirit's brain detonate when she scoots closer to Soul, lacing a hand in the empty one he has left on his knee in inconspicuous invitation.

Her ears pop uncomfortably as they ascend. She leans forward to look around Soul and out the window. The bright morning glare of the sun shines off bits of cloud and into her eyes. The light bounces off his skin and burns through his hair, angelic colors at odds with the sour look on his face.

Perhaps he doesn't fight her father because the usual accusations against him are a bit more legitimate now. 'Don't lay a hand on her' or conversely, because Papa is an idiot, 'Give her a grab, are you a man or what?' are now options that are past-due. If Soul replies to these questions with a ' **HAH** , been there, done that,' she has no doubt in her mind that they would all careen out of the sky with the force of Spirit's anger.

She needs to handle this.

Once they reach cruising altitude, she hears her father fumbling with the latch on his safety belt over the roar of engines, presumably to separate the two of them like children. She undoes her own and untangles her hand from Soul's to hurriedly cut Spirit off in the aisle, grabbing him by the ear before he can start any havoc. Maka drags him to the aft of the plane, determined to set some things straight before he makes an ass of himself.

She sits in an empty chair, tugging him down to the seat next to her. Spirit is a mass of whining and pain until she lets go of his ear and places a hand on the sleeve of his suit jacket.

"Maka. What can I do?"  
I know there's an adult in here somewhere-"

At her father's dismay, she waves a hand to cut him off. That's not how she wants to start. She feels Soul gently plucking at her, curious as to what's going on but unable to hear them so far back in the plane. His presence is enough reassurance to speak to her father seriously.

"I understand, Papa. You're trying to do your job. Thank you.  **However-** _"_ she amends before he swells up too much with pride, "please keep in mind that _he cares for me as much as you do_."

For a fraction of a second, she sees a man she can admire in his face, when he mutters, "I know it." She's caught off-guard, not used to the idea of Spirit being anything close to humble.

He follows with an immature pout and "Doesn't mean I have to like it! That beast is DEAD!" He grapples at the collar of her trench coat desperately, shaking her in worry and hissing if the uncultured swine has 'popped her cherry.' With a howl, she takes a complimentary magazine from the back pocket of the seat in front of her, delivering a blow to her father's useless brain. She brushes off her jacket, stomping over his slumped body and back down the aisle. Maka sits in a huff next to Soul, drawing her legs to her chest. She rests her head on her knees.

"Idiot. Idiot idiot idiot idiot." She angrily mutters. Like any bouquet he gives her, her faith in her papa always wilts. She wishes he weren't her father so she could hate him and not love him so much. She feels Soul's hand on her wrist, stopping her from absently picking at the scabs on her shins in irritation. She lifts her head as he pulls her gently to him, admonishing her through the bond. A quiet, smoky  _'stop that, it's no good for you.'_

Right again, as usual.

* * *

As much as she loves reading, ten hours of it isn't really her style. In-flight movies help pass a bit of the time along with lunch, but eventually snoozing away the hours becomes the only escape.

It's difficult to fall asleep with the roar of engines and her father fawning over their one flight attendant. Resisting the urge (more out of apathy than self-restraint) to smash her novel into Spirit's skull, she turns her attention to Soul. His lips are pursed comically, a finger idly tracing notes on his leg as he stares intently into the seat in front of him. The music in the bond is like a broken record or stop and go traffic, repeating certain measures and halting abruptly. He's trying create the next part of the piece, going back a phrase and playing it through his mind with a running start, hopefully to hurdle over the dead end with a new idea. She thinks she recognizes a few of the invisible symbols that he flicks distractedly, but then again, she thinks they're still in the air when he suddenly nudges her side with an elbow.

"Oi. We're here."

Maka's eyes snap open. She's confused by the daylight- her body feels like it should easily be evening by now, but sunlight glares hotly into the aircraft at an almost full noon tilt. She rubs her eyes tiredly, not recalling falling asleep and amazed that she'd slept through the landing. Her yawn pops her ears and the world becomes suddenly and uncomfortably loud. Her father appears to be made of inhuman stuff to have made it through two ten hour flights back to back, prancing down the exit stairs after the flight attendant onto the tarmac.

Soul follows her stiffly down the stairs, his tired hiss at the brightness of the sun revealing he's also disoriented, though he handles it a lot better. She bumps into her father at the bottom, who has stopped suddenly to dig in his pocket. She groans, rubbing her nose. Maka's just about to knee him in the back when Spirit turns around with a disapproving leer directed above her head and at her partner's. Something jingling leaves his hand and Soul catches it in confusion, the small shopping bag of their combined belongings loudly sliding off his shoulder and into the crook of his elbow with the movement.

"A gift," Spirit says with a sneer, "from Shinigami-sama and Dr. Stein."

Maka cranes back her head in time to catch Soul's eyebrows disappear under his hair. An incredulous look is shot past her, and she follows his gaze to see her father walking away, waving them goodbye with a hand in the air. She almost thinks it's a cool move, but Spirit turns around and gives her such gleeful wink and thumbs-up before hopping into the back seat of an unmarked car with their flight attendant that she could puke.

Soul's eyes are locked on the object in his hand, and he numbly puts a palm to the small of her back to urge her to keep moving, guiding her to a parking lot filled with unmarked shuttle buses and business cars with tinted windows.

"What did he give you?" She asks.

He's searching around them for something, sucking his lips into a thin line. "Afraid to guess, in fear that it's a joke." Soul stops suddenly, dangling keys from his hand for her to see. Before she can stop herself, her hand is already reaching out to press a small red button on a black cartridge. A loud security beep chirps from their left, a few aisles down. As they stumble towards it, a large wheel comes into view.

When Soul starts to  _giggle,_ she begins to think that maybe he's been dipping his feet in the black blood a little too frequently. Then again, she can't help but feel a little happy for him when they come face to face with a shining new motorcycle after having heard what had happened to his old one. The grin on his face is infectious as Soul drops the bag and throws his arms up into the sky with a hearty crow of delight.


	17. Make It Wit Chu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit content.

**Soul**

 

He's  _exceedingly_  pleased.

Maybe Stein isn't so bad. Perhaps the scientist had picked up some coolness along with insanity after all those hours of Soul Resonance with him in Madaga-shithole. The bike is  _hot._ It has a soul of a muscle car seeping out from underneath its carefully-designed elegance. Not too much chrome, only the faintest hint of painted, silvery flame, and with an engine that isn't obnoxiously loud, but has a suggestive, deep rumble that can't be mistaken for weakness.

A sexy bike, Maka's arms wrapped around him, wind destroying his hair and contorting his face as they cruise along cobblestone streets- all he needs is a cheeseburger and some freakin' fries and he'd be living the American Dream!

Actually, that doesn't sound bad at all. It's dinner time. Or lunch time. Fuck it, he's just hungry.

At a stoplight, he glances over his shoulder to ask his meister if she wants anything to eat, though really it's out of courtesy because he's going to make her eat food regardless. His words are cut short when he finds she has that steamrolled hangover look again, practically panting in the sun's heat that he hasn't noticed in his excitement. Now that he's aware of it, the heat is beating down on him through his new jacket he wears to protect himself from the wind. Soul bites the inside of his cheek for a moment, cheeseburgers calling him from afar. Straight ahead is hunger salvation, but a turn to the right would take them directly home.

The twisting of his torso catches her attention. She doesn't bother trying to hide the tiredness in her face while tonelessly informing him she wants a milkshake. Strawberry. Immediately.

His fingers involuntarily twitch on the handlebars when she returns her head to his back, her arms winding about his chest more tightly. It's debatable if she's actually telling the truth or just going along with his cravings, and it makes him recall a certain unfulfilled lasagna session. She urges him to go forward. He'll have to make it up to her.

* * *

Maka is kind of scary when she's jet-lagged. She exudes reckless coolness in amounts that he has to actively concentrate to try to mirror, and that's saying something. She props her legs up on the table in the corner of the burger joint, her boots clacking together loudly and making the condiments on the table jangle. She glares at him when he tells her to scoot over, but he  _needs to sit next to her_  because she's not wearing any leggings, and if he doesn't block the view she'll end up flashing the entire establishment. Maka relents under his poker face, sliding over to the wall but keeping her legs on the table, resting a grouchy elbow on a window sill and propping her head up in a haughty tilt with fingertips.

They dimly recognize from a distance a few of their fellow students scattered through the room, here during lunch break and chatting excitedly. The link bristles with her irritation at the squealing of a particular table of over-primped, heavily made-up girls. Her legs clamp to each other tightly, flexing in annoyance when first one, then two, then all five of them look in their direction, each making a cursory glance over Maka. Then, when it seems like she is not a threat, their gazes linger on  _him,_ shakily making eye contact with him and dissolving into nervous, flushed giggles and fluttering lashes. Maka's hand on her knee clenches into a gloved fist.

He won't deny that all of it as a whole soothes a lot of his lately-bruised ego, but it's not the least bit cool the way that they see his meister as nothing to worry about. It offends him a little. The buckles of Maka's boots grind together as her irritation grows. Their order number is called and he slides out from the booth, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it into her lap. He silently holds conference with the powers the be, praying that she doesn't snap and start the next holocaust. Soul's afraid he's pushing his luck as he walks past the offending table to pick up their food at the counter- he can feel their eyes on him, and Maka's agitation through the link crackles in the back of his mind like lightning.

Soul returns to the booth without incident. She's so caught up in glaring a ball of emerald fire at the girls that she doesn't look at him at all. He places her milkshake in front of her, and she absently grabs a straw, peeling the wrapper slowly and meticulously, doubtlessly imagining some kind of gruesome death while giving the group of girls the evil eye.

Maka pinches her straw's wrapper in between forefinger and thumb, rolling it into a tight ball and smashing it mercilessly. He tries to hide a smirk behind a hand while he shakes ketchup on his fries. He dimly registers the other table's constant stream of glances and stares, but now he's preoccupied with watching her in thinly-veiled amusement.

A new problem arises. He finds he has a rather magnetic fixation with her mouth, her lips pulling at pink liquid sweetness through a fat straw. She swallows, her throat shifting ever so slightly. He sets the bottle of ketchup down. He is so going to get Makachopped for what he's about to do. But they have an audience, and he doesn't want to disappoint, so he reaches over and lightly pinches the straw, slowly pulling it from her mouth. Ah, finally she looks at him, her thoughts derailed and eyebrows scrunched in confusion. The springs in the booth squeak as he shifts his weight, and it's as effective as a gunshot when it silences the table of babbling idiots.

She tastes like malt and artificial strawberry. The inside of her mouth is cold, and he thinks he rather likes the sensation. Maka's tongue, after a moment of shock, involuntarily makes a timid flick at his own. He keeps it short and sweet, pulling away with a chaste peck on rosy lips and returning casually to his burger. His wonderful, ass-kicking burger, which tastes like victory while her rage dissolves into a sedated hum of pride and quiet arousal. Soul tries to hide his grin by taking a ferocious bite out of his meal.

* * *

Just after he toes off his shoes, he gets the sudden urge to cringe. Soul ducks with entirely too much unmanliness as Blair spots them coming through the front door. She's already running at them at full-tilt, nearly hypnotizing him with bouncing flesh, and the only thing he can think of is wanting to not be smothered to death, brought back to consciousness, and Makachopped back into the afterlife.

Soul feels retarded when the cat-witch passes him up entirely and tackles Maka instead. He's a little relieved, but also annoyed. Well whatever. Women (and cats) are crazy. He walks away from them to empty the contents of their bag of belongings and to escape Blair's stream of extremely female chatter. What happened to your face? How was the trip? You look tan! Blah blah  _blahhhhh.  
_  
The sight of the living room is a comfort, along with the silent shine of his piano. Had he honestly felt cooped-up in this haven only days before? Absurdity. The apartment smells of life, more human and lived-in than hotel rooms and airplanes. It is calm, quiet, secure, and absolutely zombie-free. Soul pads down the hallway and into the bathroom, flipping the light switch and putting their recently-bought toothbrushes into the holder above the sink.

He can still picture her clearly, splayed on the tiled floor with the haunted look on her face. The memory tugs at his guts uncomfortably. Even more vividly, he can remember her staring angrily up at him from the sink while he washes her hair, or her face dimly lit by candlelight as she gently touches his jagged scar. He switches off the light, limbs tingling.

Back in the hallway, he can tell by the tone of Maka's voice that their roommate has asked something embarrassing and private. Soul prods the link nosily, eager to dig up info on anything and everything that makes her voice go all high-pitched and aghast like that. Maka abstractly smacks at him, muddily informing him to mind his own business.

Walking to his room, he drapes his new jacket on the back of a chair. He dumps the rest of the contents of the bag on his bed, sorting out his things from hers, but not before taking a small moment of satisfaction at seeing their belongings tangled together- a moment that he will never admit to  _anyone._  With her clothes and book in one arm, he heads towards her room. Soul hears Blair's voice echoing down the hallway, and he catches a few words that interest him immediately:

"Bu-tan picked up  _that thing_ this morning- he'll really like it! I put it on your-"

Bed. She had put it on her bed. A small, unmarked paper bag with fragile rope handles. It sits innocently on a childish comforter decked in polka dots and kittens. Decisions, decisions. It might not be for  _him_  specifically. It's not like it's his birthday or anything. It could be for some other guy.

His eye twitches at that notion. It better not be.

...Maybe for her father?

He ponders the situation while scrutinizing the bag. Soul could look, spoil the fun and be murdered, or he could not look and die of curiosity. Either option ends in death, so it's a hard choice. Black*Star would look. Black*Star is also a little bastard. Death the Kid wouldn't look, but he's a pussy.

A pussy who gets  _threesomes._

Damn. The sound of the front door shutting spurs him into grudgingly placing Maka's things next to the untouched bag.

Blair appears to have gone to work. He finds Maka sitting at the piano, her trench coat discarded on the arm of the couch nearby. Light streams through the windows tinting her in searing whites and golden yellows. She's staring at something off to her left as a gloved hand lightly traces the outlines of black keys. The combination of seeing her together with the instrument acts as a Deja vu catalyst that sets his heart pumping more quickly. Walking around the piano to better see what she's staring at, he finds that the light sets her in silhouette, making it easy to imagine a dress and a piano with seared holes where black blood has sizzled in.

She looks at a mostly-empty glass of water on the windowsill. It holds wilted stems with curled, dead petals. Soul's going to get a sore if he keeps biting the inside of his cheek like this.

He probably shouldn't bring it up, but he does anyway.

"Maka."

At his voice, her fingers twitch, pressing a key in the seventh octave. It seems to start a small snowball effect, and now she lightly plays a handful of keys randomly. She looks away from the window slowly, moving her eyes to her right hand that fiddles at the piano, finding the correct keys of his lullaby. The sun burns a halo-like outline into her hair. She tilts an ear up towards him, listening.

"What did you say to Spirit on the plane?"

Her pinky falters, sliding off a recently-pressed key and into an adjacent one with a note that throws the harmony out of balance. Maka starts up again, but she doesn't know tempo- the notes are just a march of keys in a certain order.

"I tried to tell him to ...back off or something. But it didn't come out right," she starts, forlornly.

"Back off?"  
"To give you a break! And then he  _shook_  me and asked if...!"

 **CLANG.**  Maka's hands don't have much of a spread, but she reaches enough notes to create a din akin to her anger.

Soul doesn't know what Spirit had said to piss her off this much, but he can probably guess. He is again reminded that his meister is pretty scary when jet-lagged. He moves around to the left side of the bench, sitting next to her but facing the opposite direction. He runs his palms along the cushioning.

"I wanna sleep," she whines. He does too, but it's still daylight. If they want any hope in hell of not being zombies in class tomorrow, they need to stay up awhile longer.

"Can't yet," he reminds her. It's out of his mouth before he can stop himself and his wretched curiosity. "So...what'd you get me?"

She scoffs, and starts to lightly play again. "I'm surprised you didn't look."

Ahah! So it  _is_  for him. "Decided peeking would be uncool."

"Uh-huh," she mutters, deadpan. She's immune to his cool-isms. "You'll have to wait until Friday."

"What's Friday?"  
"A formal."  
"Whaaaaat. Don't wanna."  
"For the end of the semester. Or so Blair said."

Soul groans loudly at the ceiling. Parties, dancing, being social, and having to hide out on a balcony all night are never on his immediate to-do list.

"I refuse."  
"Not even for my present?"

He makes a frustrated noise. "It's not my birthday."

Maka purses her lips, seeming to not want to admit something, but she sighs, resigned. "It was supposed to be a welcome home present, but I ended up going with you so..."

Guilt trip. How's he supposed to weasel out of  _that?_  To his grim silence, she adds, "I'll let you copy off my final."

Soul grits his teeth. The thought of failing and more 'extra lessons' is a motivating one.

"Deal. But on one condition."  
"Hm?"  
"Wear the sexy panties."

" **WHAT-** " the piano clangs in her shock. Soul leans back, reading her face. She's instantly flushed, looking horrified at the ivory keys. The link is scrambling after a surprise curve-ball.

"What," he asks innocently. "For the dance. Wear them."

"Wh...why?"  
"Why not? Who's gonna see? Besides me, I mean.  **OW. I've already seen 'em, stop smacking me!** "  
 **  
**Maka is beating his head with a fist. "It's. Reflex!" she roars, shoving him off the bench. She huffs at the piano, affronted. He snickers a little from the floor. He can't help it- baiting her is entertaining.  
 **  
**"So it's a deal, then?"  
"....Fine."

He chuckles again, propping his legs up on the bench much like she had earlier at the diner. Sour chagrin floats aimlessly on the link while she again starts her novice playing of the lullaby. He nudges her back with a foot. "Na, play it less angrily."

She's confused by the sudden subject change, her notes halting. She plays the keys more softly in compensation, but they are still lacking the cohesiveness that separates plain notes from music. He swings his legs off the bench, righting himself on his knees and draping his chest over where he had been sitting earlier. He plays the notes several octaves lower, trying to show her how they should be paced, but when she tries, the phrase is still jagged around the edges. Soul's never tried teaching anyone something like this before, and he knows she's not exactly musically inclined, but there has to be some way for her to understand what he's trying to say.

Determined, he stands, moving behind her and placing his hand on hers. For only one instant does the action seem innocent, and then that switch is flipped again- the one that makes them terribly over-aware of the other. Maka's head is cradled in the crook of his neck as he stands over her. He tries not to acknowledge his savage possessiveness when he reaches around with both arms to gently slide a glove off her hand. Almost like the Black Dress, he can feel wisps of the link slowly wrapping around him in reflexive reply. But he can't stop now, damn it. He wants to teach her this, so his rapidly-beating heart can just get the fuck over it. He tosses the worn leather to the floor.

Maka's fingers are warm where he rests them on top of his, putting his hand in the correct place. Soul presses the keys, making her play the phrase as he does. He can tell from the link that she's concentrating hard on what he's trying to show her, but it's hard because his knuckles are distracting. He slides his hand out from under hers and she tries it again, but it sounds only superficially the same as he's shown her. She's copied the movements, not having actually grasped the idea of the music.

"It's like fighting," he offers quietly. He's half-pleased that his voice makes her shiver, and mentally kicks himself for getting off-track. "It's not just one parry, then one sidestep, then one stab- it's a whole movement. Again."

He feels her balk at how it's suddenly turned into a teacher-student scenario, but her fingers move once more.

"Again."

Soul places his hands on her shoulders, and while trying to find some way to get her to feel what he feels, something gets nudged into place. He isn't sure about the hows or whys, but one moment he's running the song through his mind, wanting her to hear him and understand, and the next he feels himself plummet. There's a disorienting feeling of falling, and he immediately thinks of black holes and nuclear craters. The link howls into life, making the world bleed away and all his awareness shifts to the wide-open connection. Suddenly he can hear her, loud and as clearly as Soul Resonance, exposed to raw, explosive emotion. Maka's trying to recall what the lullaby had sounded like in the Black Room, as it had been her first time actually hearing it being played by someone other than herself. She's grasping after that feeling, trying to mold it into something she can tangibly work with her fingers. She is desperate to understand this part of his life and so very frustrated with herself. And oh, what's this? How is he so close? Why can she feel him like this so suddenly?

He's  _in_  her but he's not. His hands are free to move at his leisure but his will is being transmitted into her own hands. It's slow at first, because she rejects giving her body over to him, but then Maka gradually relaxes, the notes flowing from the parlor grand and echoing into the sunlit room. She plays as if possessed, staring at her fingers like they are alien to her. Her soul mingles with his, mixing and melding. It's hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. They're impossibly lashed together. It's Resonance without his weapon form and without the Black Room lurking in the dark.

 _It's like this_ , he wills her to listen. _  
It flows like water._ His soul pours into her fingers. _  
It blows like wind._ Her body sways to a tempo he sets. _  
_  
The lullaby turns into Soul's song-in-progress again, her fingers running to lower registers and her eyes shutting in almost-pained bliss. She's tangled in emotions- feeling what he feels as he plays, what he feels watching her play, wanting to cry from the overload but so in awe from the music itself. She's never heard it with physical ears, only bits and pieces from the bond and a rushed, distraught, madness-tinged version in the Black Room. She doesn't know what the hell 'C-sharp Minor' means, but she knows what it sounds like because it's _him._ These are  _his_  notes, this is  _his_  heart.

 _And here too_ , he tells her while he directs her hands to the next movement.  _This part is you.  
_  
She gets him. In this un-calculated moment, she fully embraces his weirdness, aloofness, desire to be just a little bit cool, and his inexpressible, absurd love for her. Without the barrier of words that he doesn't know how to use, she now understands it's never been a battle about being good enough for him. He simply can not accept anyone else. He doesn't know what to do about any of it, but he knows it's truth.

_It pulls at the heart._

Maka takes control of her own hands. Soul Chain diminishes back into a semi-normal thrumming (to his dismay), and Maka twists her body around, grabbing a fistful of his shirt (to his delight). In the abrupt silence of the piano and the loud chatter of whatever tangent of Resonance they'd just had, Maka shakily pulls him to her face. Warning bells go off in the back of his mind, expecting some kind of Spirit Albarn Assassination Crew to bust in through the windows and gut him like a fish, but the heat of her skin and her fingers crumpling his tie silence them.

Evidently the latest developments have shoved aside her tiredness, because she's nearly feverish, exultantly kissing him. She maneuvers around, resting on her knees on the bench to face him, her grip on his tie never ceasing and going so far as to yank him closer to her. The movement sets him off-balance, pressing his body against her and catching himself noisily on the keys behind her with his palms. Her hands- one gloved, one bare- suddenly wind in his hair, tugging at every nip of her lips with his teeth.

Soul's body tingles when she moves her head to the side, baring her neck to him. He spies his previous mark from the other night. He'd grin, but he doesn't have the time to remember how to do it. Maka's a mess of heated breath and tangled hair, grinding her forehead and cheekbones and jaw into his arm as he worries tender skin. He gets a shock when her hands leave his scalp and work at loosening his tie.

Well... alright then. Soul stands upright, straightening his back and tugging at his tie for her, but she grabs the tail of it again, awkwardly standing and dragging him away from the piano to the couch. He stumbles after her, and he's more than a little bewildered when she shoves him into the cushions.

"Sit."

Her face is too innocent and red to order him seriously, particularly when a pigtail is mostly undone and tangled at her neck. He gives her a skeptical look. Again, with the dog likenesses. She pulls her one glove off in irritation, tossing it at his face. As Soul catches it, she pushes him once more. Maybe tiredness has been shoved aside, but not irritability. She lowers herself to him, the spread of her legs making her skirt hike gloriously up her thighs, kneeling over his lap in a position all too familiar.  _  
_  
His meister has been as frustrated as he has.

He unintentionally leans further back into the sofa. He can't stop from hissing at the barest brush against his crotch, and she pauses in lifting his tie from his head. She shoots a cautious look to him, not knowing if she's hurt him, but hell no, that's not a problem  _in the least._ In response, Soul puts his hands on her hips, loving how they fit perfectly there, and guides her into his lap. Her mouth opens slightly, her breath cut short while she gauges the sensation of his restrained erection against her. There's only the thin layer of her underwear protecting her skin from the roughness of his jeans, and she shudders delicately under his hands.

She then does something that makes his perception of her explode: Staring down at their laps, Maka adjusts slightly, letting the length of the bulge in his pants settle more naturally in the middle of her folds, then proceeds to meticulously  _grind against him_.

She eyes his reaction from between ruffled sections of bangs, deciding that his strained sigh is adequate. She repeats the motion, the link awash in curiosity, pleasure, and a bit of satisfaction in his heavy breathing. She finally pulls the tie over his head, letting it drop carelessly from her hand and into the couch. She's trying to attack the buttons of his shirt, but he finds a kind of entertainment in trying to interrupt her with the grinding of his hips. Maka is embarrassed from his successes, breathing heavily and glaring at him haughtily with a heavy blush.

Her yanking his shirt out from his belt starts another wave of Deja vu that forces him to shut his eyes in effort to keep control. Maka doesn't bother with trying to take his shirt off, slowly moving the unbuttoned fabric away to his sides. There's a solemn moment when he opens his eyes, watching her as she stares at his scar, tracing it lightly with a finger. It's a strange torture, and his breath hitches whenever her palms brush against it as she runs them half-greedily along his torso. Is that  _amusement_  on the link when he jerks as she grazes his ticklish spots? He doesn't know what's gotten into her (or maybe he does because it definitely has a hold over him), but when she leans down to boldly lick the portion of tissue directly over his heart, he reaches such a state of arousal that his toes go a little numb.

Soul watches his hand tangle itself in a side tail of hair and pull her head up to his, wanting to play with the tongue that teases him so. She still has a faint, sweet aftertaste of milkshake. When she sucks his tongue into her mouth, probably more out of accident than purpose, he thinks it's the last straw that breaks the back of his restraint.

She's a step ahead of him though. Her hands that had been playing along his chest now lightly pin his arms to the backrest of the couch. It's not like she can overpower him physically, but she definitely has a power over him that he can't fight against.

"Stay," she says with a devastatingly demure warning-pout. He could almost forget that she says it like he's a dog. A hopelessly devoted, obedient dog that gutturally whimpers when his meister slides off of his lap and down to the floor, settling between his legs. Yet another familiar position- his fingers dig desperately in to the back of the sofa.

Soul knows she wants him to stay still, but he searches for any reason to stop her. Yet her hands are cautious at his belt, not shaking. Soul Chain reveals her suspense, not fear, although she still sports several levels of astonishment at her current actions. Maka's face is crimson during the grand reveal. She gingerly folds back his unzipped jeans and frees his erection through the fly of his boxers. It's instinct for a guy to feel a bit self-conscious, and Soul is no exception. His dick isn't anything godlike, but he'd like to think it's not pathetic. Maybe. He's not sure how to interpret her eyebrows reaching her hairline.

She glances from his crotch to his face. Her eyes are warm despite being so innocently large. Soul feels a little wide open and wary until a heady feeling through the link makes him release the breath he had been holding. She feels  _flattered_ that she can make him this way.

Maka's hand is crawling across his hip, and just as she's about to grab him by the base of his cock, she shoots him a little glare and says, "Don't interrupt me this time." Soul is a mess of involuntary movements, every muscle in his body strained as her hand wraps around him, his breath hissing loudly between his teeth. Assured through the link that she's not injuring him, her fingers lightly feather up his erection, and she revels in the strange, silken texture. In a desperate sort of agony, he tries to relay the notion that she can definitely be more forceful, and he can't stop his hand from releasing the couch and wrapping around hers to tilt himself this way and that, making her grip more firm and less teasing.

An embarrassed  _'..oh!'_  and a sheepish glance later, she lowers he head over him, and if not for the roaring in his ears he could swear he hears a tiny, "-itadakimasu," her breath warm against his hand that covers hers.  
 **  
Sweet mother of GOD.**

Soul has to slam shut his eyes and throw his head back with a choked groan. It's too hot. It's a molten pit of lava. He has to pry open an eye to make sure it really  _is_ her mouth that's making his shuddering breaths so  _loud_ in the silence of the apartment, but then as he watches her he ends up holding his breath anyway, lungs burning, when her tongue flicks at his head, unseen in her sealed lips.

He slides his hand away from her, tangling it once more into her hair. It takes every ounce of sanity in his body to not simply jerk his hips up into her face, but he manages, because he's a fucking gentleman. Maka, having found a way to completely render him into a tingling, submissive pile of  **useless** , is actually enjoying herself- turning the whole session into a game of figuring out what makes Soul moan the loudest. She's cruel. The woman is cruel and amazing and is  _such a little pervert_  that he's kicking himself over not having thought of this sooner.

No, that's a lie. He's thought of this plenty of times.

She's nothing like a porno- apart from the skirt, she doesn't show a lot of skin. She doesn't talk dirty. He doubts that playing with his balls is going to cross her mind anytime soon. She manages to still look somehow pure with his thing in her mouth, even when she makes pleased  _eating noises_  whenever he's particularly vocal. Despite being inexperienced (though that really only means Soul gets to  _be_  her experience), Maka is careful with her teeth and knows from cues through the link when and where sucking, or a swirl of tongue, or a full-bodied lick from base to tip is a good idea.

Anytime.

His toes curl as he watches her go down... down... her nose briefly grazing the fabric of his boxers, his mouth a fountain of ' _holy shits'_  and other expletives.

He doesn't know what exactly sets him off, believing it to be a collective effort of sunlight harshly defining her face and jawline, and the subdued, possessive look in her hooded eyes as she rears back, flesh popping out of her slightly-puffy mouth as she catches her breath. To his credit, Soul warns her of what's already coming, but instead of getting out of the way, she leans forward hurriedly, a dainty hand holding her hair out of the way, sealing her lips over his straining dick to  _catch it all._ He arches forward, spine impossibly bending as he clings desperately to the couch cushions, a gravelly groan trampling out of his mouth and into the nape of her neck while his body attempts to channel ten million volts of electricity.

Maka's still attached to him like a barnacle when he collapses back into the couch. Head lolled to one side, Soul watches as she lightly removes her mouth from him, the sensation of her sliding off his hypersensitive skin almost unbearable, but still quietly stirring. Maka rests her face on his left thigh, her lips a few shades darker than usual, swollen, and he watches her swallow like one watches a train wreck, because _she thinks that's what she's supposed to do_  and he can't for any reason look away.

Soul is bewildered and sated and feels like he's just finished running five miles. She's curiously watching his erection slowly falling like it's on the friggen' Discovery Channel while lightly touching her lips with her fingertips.

"It's bitter," she murmurs meekly.

He scoffs, tiredly amazed. "Tried to warn you. But then you..."

Guh. And then she ... **guhhh~** He can't think anymore.

Maka puts a hand on his knee, using it as leverage to help straighten up her cramping legs. She walks around the couch, and he hears her get a glass of water. Soul takes a moment to cringe his way completely back into his pants. His fingers feel useless and wooden as he buckles his belt. She returns, sitting next to him on the couch, sipping quietly. Her cheeks still have a bit of an embarrassed tint to them, but along the link she's as pleased as Blair with a saucer of cream.

"Maka... I-"

What? 'I really needed that, thanks?' 'I'm sorry I taste like bleach?' 'I think I might like femdom now?' As he fumbles for words, she only smiles and says half-jokingly, "Love you too," as if she's saying 'You're welcome.' She raises the glass halfway to her lips before she realizes what she's just casually uttered.

"Ah." She says in surprise, looking over at him to find his raised eyebrow. Maka bites her lip for a moment, but after mulling it over, she just shyly shrugs, taking her drink of water with a blushing smile.

Despite his sluggish body, his blood still manages to heat his face. He looks away, hand covering his mouth.

"Gonna be the death of me," he mumbles.

Maka can be kind of scary when jet-lagged. She's  _exceedingly_  pleased.


	18. You Shook Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit content.

**Maka**

 

There had been an unspoken agreement regarding how neither of them shall ever speak about fumbling for conversation and failing, or being unable to make eye contact without painfully blushing like pre-pubescent girls. She had excused herself to go take a shower; it was the best she could come up with.

Maka hadn't wanted to seem like she was fleeing from what she had done, but he had looked a little relieved, seeing her off with a small wave of hand and a single laugh of wry amusement. They both needed time to digest.

 _THINK. Not digest!_  She groans at her poor choice in thoughts, voice echoing between tiled walls as she towels off her hair.

Maka had believed after doing something like  _that_  with a guy, she would feel changed somehow- some kind of sexual enlightenment would occur and the whole world would look differently- but she still feels like the same scrawny girl who has no definitive grasp on how to be sexy whatsoever.

The only real difference in herself is how her mind keeps wandering to the fact that she's still irritatingly aroused. There's a residual warmth in her stomach and lingering adrenaline in her veins from their time spent on the couch.

Who wouldn't be aroused? Soul had  _whimpered._ What a huge difference from his usual, growling aggressiveness! The memory of him pinches her insides with electric heat. He had tried so hard to hide the desperation on his face. She remembers his legs clamping around her shoulders, his hips quivering underneath her hands, and his voice as he hunches over, reaching climax-

This isn't helping at all. She needs to think of other things. Things like the upcoming final she should be studying for, or what the  _hell_  kind of connection they'd had earlier. Maka mulls the situation over, running a comb through wet hair. The plastic teeth pluck and dully sing at a particular tangle.

It had been Soul Resonance for sure, though not the kind they were accustomed to. Soul Resonance is usually a balance between equals- an even match between Meister and Weapon. Earlier that evening, however, had felt like a completely different ratio. Instead of a blend of the two of them, it had been completely Soul, overtaking her body and spirit. Like when first facing Free, or the madness-battle with Chrona, Soul's soul had encompassed hers, nearly consuming it.

Though there had been a singular difference- the black blood had not been involved at all. Maka could escape Resonance any time at will. Can it go the opposite direction? Could she do the same to him? She doesn't see why not. She wonders if there's any sort of documentation of such a thing. Surely the ability could be useful somehow.

Apart from making him do housework, of course. Or...  _other things._

Thoughts completely derailed, Maka feels she is way too pleased with herself, but her satisfaction won't stop! She faintly hears an abashed  _'alright, already!'_  from Soul through the bond, which only makes her stifle giggles behind a hand.

She dons a bathrobe (she should probably invest in her own sometime) and walks down the hallway to her room to get dressed. On the way there, she hears Soul swearing from the kitchen. Though not an entirely unusual event, her curiosity takes the bait, for surely there is amusement to be had. She slowly meanders towards his grumbling voice.

Maybe giving him a blow job had been a bad idea. She thinks she's broken him.  _He's talking to himself._

"Gah! Son of a fuck..."

Maka cautiously looks around the entryway of the kitchen, finding her partner grimacing and cringing while handling sticky rice that is obviously still too hot to hold. He's juggling the mass in between hands like a lizard dancing on hot pavement. Soul really sucks at making onigiri. He's generally talented with his hands- piano for his whole life is probably the culprit- but evidently that talent does not extend to burning blobs of rice.

He's excellent at flipping off the steaming bowl of it, though.

"I cut through platoons of your zombified family, you assholes," Soul mutters, placing a somewhat triangular-shaped mass on a separate plate. Maka doesn't have to open herself much to him to hear his loud disgruntlement through the bond. Most of it is directed towards his immediate task, but she can tell some of it is especially for her, because it is only for her that he's here, masochistically burning himself so she actually eats something tonight. He's talking to grain, and it's a new low for him. He dips his hands in soy sauce before forming the rice into the next sloppy blob for flavor, because their kitchen appears to be out of ' _...those flakey... sprinkle crap things.'_

"Furikake?" She offers out loud.

"Yeah. Whatever."

Soul's even more unamused once he realizes she's been standing there, watching him in his particular brand of pathetic insanity. He scowls when she cant hold back her laughter any longer.

Maka asks in between giggles, "What are you doing?"

Turning towards her, he stares at his red, angry palms. "I don't know anymore."

He manages to look terribly attractive with his shirt still undone and dragging at his hips, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There's little flecks of rice stuck to the backs of his fingers and dotting up his forearms. She's not sure she wants to know how he managed to get some on his chest. Soul gives her a miserable look. Maka's torn between snickering and blushing, and ends up doing both as she nudges him out of the way, telling him, "There's white stuff on your stomach."

He tries his best to sound like a cool guy when he replies, "Maybe you should lick it off, then," but Soul ends up sounding more like a pouting five year old. "You robe-stealer," he tacks on, lamely.

* * *

Maka sits on the floor in her pajamas, back propped up against the foot of the couch. She's been trying to study, though more to pass time than for actual educational purposes. When she realizes she's been reading the same diagram for at least fifteen minutes, her eyes unwilling to focus on the tiny text, she closes the book in defeat. She looks over her shoulder to tell Soul she's going to bed, but he's not watching television anymore.

Though he had warned her throughout the day to not fall asleep, Soul ends up passed out after eating a mountain of yaki onigiri. He is sprawled on the entire length of the couch, one leg messily propped up and over the back and an arm hanging down to the floor at Maka's side. His head is somehow wedged between seat cushion and throw pillow, which muffles his rumbling snores.

It's another rare moment in which she can spy on him deeply asleep, and she's regretful of ruining the opportunity. The position he's in can't be healthy. She nudges his arm, but he only snorts in response. Standing, Maka lightly takes the pillow off his face. She strokes his head a little and watches his deeply burning eyes slide open, his entire body stretching before he realizes he's awake. Maka pulls him up from the couch without an ounce of his help whatsoever, the lazy bum. She walks behind him, hands on his shoulders to steer, guiding him around the couch and down the hall.

She tries to ignore the urge to slide the collar of his unbuttoned shirt off and feel the muscles in his shoulders more intimately. Logic says she's tired, he's probably sleepwalking, and she'll be damned if she starts accepting the idea that she's uncontrollably horny. It just goes against her grain.

Soul grunts helplessly while staring at the doorknob to his room.

"Geez, you're such a baby," she sighs exasperatedly, reaching around and opening the door for him. He grunts his acknowledgment. She pushes him head-first into his bed, his face mashing into a pillow where he stays as solid as stone. She has to wrestle his dead-weight legs to get the blanket out from underneath him to pull it over his body.

She's profoundly alarmed when he starts digging his arms underneath his hips, the backs of his elbows mutating the blanket over him, obscuring her view. Surely he can't be  _touching himself_...right? Would he do that in front of her? Is she rooted in place in horror or temptation to stick around and watch?

She's relieved when she hears a rewarding sigh and sees his hand reaching out towards her, depositing a belt on the floor. Arm going limp, he's back to being a dead statue. She debates the value of just hopping in and joining him, his bed looking comfortable to her tired body, but she wants an appointment with a toothbrush.

Maka turns off the television and stray lights throughout the apartment while brushing her teeth. Ready for bed and back in her own room, she notices her alarm clock with dismay. It's not even eight at night yet. They had both utterly failed at staying up to normal hours.

Settling into bed comfortably, she digs into a small paper bag. Inside is a dark blue, velvety box that creaks tightly as she opens it. Nestled inside with a swatch of soft fabric are a pair of golden cufflinks: A treble clef for his right hand, a bass clef for his left. They are cunningly designed, delicate and subtle. They shine quietly in the yellow glow of her bedside lamp.

She hopes he will like them. No, he  _better_  like them, because they are absolutely perfect and it had been a bitch to find someone who could make them, and though they were a fraction of the price of the piano, they still cost her a pretty penny. He's going to appreciate her efforts until his face falls off, and  _he's going to like it when it does._

She hopes.

Satisfied with the gift, she carefully places the box back in the bag, setting it next to her alarm clock. Maka turns out the light and burrows deeply into her pillows and bed covers.

In the near-silent dark, the only noises being the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional stomping of normal, still-awake residents coming up and going down the complex's stairwell, Maka's thoughts come to her in the form of loud questions. Aren't they doing this wrong? Particularly herself-  _she's_  bought  _him_  jewelry, bribed him to come to a formal dance which is basically a date (and involves wearing a particular pair of underwear), and more or less  _molested him_  on the couch.

Admittedly, they're both a touch abnormal, and one could hardly expect an average relationship, but isn't it silly to be sleeping in separate rooms at this point?

...Is this really logic speaking to her? Is it the annoying arousal that she can't seem to shake off? Or is she just lonely after having spent a handful of nights sleeping at his side?

Maybe it's a bit of everything, she decides. She toys with the idea of going back to his room. But for what, to be a snuggle-whore and use him for comfort? To desperately seek out some cure to the insatiable burning between her legs? She's not stupid, she knows what lust is and how it's managed.

Is she ready for that?

Probably not. She doesn't see him only that way, either.

Frustrated and feeling like an idiot, she sighs in a huff, her fingers toying with the waistband of her pajama pants. This is stupid! Stupid father with his stupid, perverted gene-pool. Stupid hormones. Stupid Soul! Maka catches herself sliding her hand underneath her panties in self-contained horror.

Wait. What? This is crazy! She's better than this. Maka Albarn does not need to masturbate. Masturbating is a deep, dark, primitive addiction of the flesh, and is reserved for horny, sex-crazed, teen-aged boys that wank in the shower. Like Soul! He did this.

_This is his fault._

Isn't denial the first step? Or maybe it's the first symptom. It's unnaturally warm between her thighs. She's never been this frustrated in her life until now. She's going to poison his cereal and give him all the wrong answers on the final and never let him see her side-tie panties ever again.

Maka experiences a sudden gut-sinking moment of terror in the dark when the smarter half of her brain finally tunes in on the bond that she had been ignoring during her mental and physical plight. It is alight with irritation and devilish retribution. She hears her door slowly swinging open, revealing only more blackness behind it. For whatever reason, her first instinct is to throw the covers over her head and pretend she's asleep, but she can't, because her hands are currently being crushed to death in between her legs.

Caught.

He's annoyed, somewhat bemused, and terribly aroused. Her body is burning, fully aware of the fire that is his presence and how her bones call out to it despite herself.

Soul's voice is gravelly and thick, "How's a guy s'posed to get any sleep when your head is so loud?"

Crap. Crap crap crap. How is she supposed to get out of this? She doesn't reply, her voice caught in her throat. She wants to blame it on mortification, but if she wants to be more honest with herself, it's probably more out of morbid curiosity. Her weapon, impatient at her silence, flings the covers off of her. Hurriedly finding her hands and putting them to her sides, she sits upright, not able to handle cowering so far below his shadowy gaze. In the dark he is only a green-tinged menace from the light of her alarm clock. He kneels on her bed, his weight tilting her towards wherever his center of gravity shifts, the bond encircling her and not allowing any iota of her attention to escape.

"Why're you thinking of me jacking it in the shower?"

Caught!

As he draws closer to her, straddling her and trapping her, she can see the faintest gleam in the single, half-lidded eye that isn't hidden in untamed hair. Maka tries to push him away but her arms remain glued to her sides, her body eager to see what happens next in a form of ultimate self-betrayal.

She doesn't know if it's because she's feeding off his feelings, or if it's simply easier to be bold in the dark, but she takes words that he has used before, turning them on him. She utters lowly, "I blame you for this."

It's all the allowance Soul needs. The heat of his body is stifling as he smothers her, forcing her on to her back with a burning sigh. The heavy pressure is a strange sort of relief, and she welcomes the possessive contact. The bond is now a singular pulse, with his only aim and desire being to drive her mad. He is torturous, running his hands up her arms to a tempo she can faintly hear.

Maka should probably stop him, if only because she's enjoying him too much. It's unhealthy. He crushes himself into her, and a hard length is pressed angrily into her leg. She's silently impatient, and he plays that card against her, completely ignoring her writhing and her unbearable need to meet his erection where she had felt it once before.

The rustling of their clothes are loud in the quiet room, his shirt crinkling as he shoves hers up to her chin, the jeans that he still wears grating roughly on the bedsheets. She is subjected to the wet noises his mouth makes on her skin, and the hoarse gasp she makes in the darkness when his teeth latch on to an exposed nipple.

Maka had never known that those were connected to all brain function. Her hands flail and dig aimlessly into his sleeves. He has to hold her firmly at the sides, his large hands gripping tightly while she jerks and squirms. Her nipples seem to be hard-wired to every nerve ending in the body, and she practically pants at the sparking sensation. Soul spends an immeasurable amount of time on her breasts, sucking surprisingly hard on a spot on the underside of one. It shocks her, and it's a little painful, but she can't tell him to stop because she's forgotten human language.

He's a devil. He allows her to get her primitive hopes up when leans back, kneeling, man-handling her legs from underneath him and dragging her forcefully forward. He hooks her legs over his hips, bringing her painfully close to his groin, but not close enough. It's not nearly close enough for the contact she craves for most. Soul bends low, kissing her stomach and smirking at her frustration. He gropes her hips, caresses the roundness of her cheeks and upper thighs, refusing to acknowledge a particular part of her body.

"Soul," she starts with an irritated whine, her hands alternately clawing at his knees and tangling in bed linens.

He hums in question, licking lightly at the faint scar left behind from her surgery. It doesn't appear to be half as sensitive as Soul's own, but the effort of every swipe of tongue is not lost on her, so it may as well be. The bond is filled with foggy satisfaction at the complete stall of her words.

She doesn't know what to say, or is too embarrassed to say it, so she attempts to buck her hips forward to crush herself against him. He has a steady grip on her though, pinning her down to her dismay.

"You need something?" He asks lightly.

Maka is going to murder him. There should be a book nearby.

"Ah-ah," he chides, "I know what that murderous intent is. You uncomfortable? Maybe want that shirt off?"

Irritated, she digs her hands into his shoulders, hauling herself up. She glares at his shadowy face while she balances and hauls her shirt (actually his) over her head and off her arms, flicking it away mockingly. She releases Soul's shoulders, propping herself up with her hands behind her, the position defiant.

Maka feels the bond twitch at this challenge. Like a chuckle, or a scoff.  _"Even you can be cool, sometimes."_

One of his hands slides up her chest, grazing rib and breast and collarbone and jaw, resting on the back of her neck, bringing her even closer to him. He briefly kisses her in a chaste, subservient press of lips, savoring a tender moment before sucking her bottom lip between his teeth.

Soul releases both her neck and swollen mouth, then, reaching past her with both hands, finds her wrists and pulls them, making her collapse underneath him. He hovers over her, finally, finally moving his jean-clad erection against her.

They hiss in tandem. He's smothering her again, laying fully against her, every grind against her crotch bringing slight discomfort but leaving behind trails of addictive bliss. His chest pressed up against hers is a feeling she can easily grow accustomed to- his wiry muscles contracting and sliding warmly on her skin. When her weapon's teeth find their preferred place on her neck, her hands immediately dig into his hair, encouraging him.

It's an infuriatingly slow tempo that he sets, making her desperately imagine if this is what it would be like without the clothes- if it's this much of a primal dance. Will her heart feel even more ready to explode?

It's so sudden that she thinks she's done something wrong when Soul moves to one side, untangling himself from her with a frustrated, rumbling growl.

She's overwhelmed in less than three seconds. She hears a zipper and a ruffling of denim. He maneuvers her easily, like a toy, her bare back pressed tightly to his sweating chest as they lay sideways, his erection pressed up against the cleft of ass. The arm he rests on snakes underneath and around her body, pinning her shoulder to her side and attaching his hand greedily to a breast. Moving her other arm behind her to hook around his neck, he slides his free hand down her torso and underneath the waistband of her pants.

"Ha? Haaa?  _HAAH?_ "

Like some kind of perverted wrestling technique, a leg tangles with hers, spreading her wide for his fingers. He's completely prepared as she shudders violently the moment his middle finger comes in contact with the folds of her skin, effectively trapping her as she yelps in surprise.

It is complete sensory overload when the hot flat of his palm presses against her clit, fingers toying and tickling with the wetness he has brought out of her. What a terrible pleasure! She doesn't know what to do- bucking away from his hand makes her rub against his dick, and bucking towards it makes her see stars. Maka's nails dig into flesh but she's not sure whose anymore. The moment Soul's finger presses inside her entrance, she becomes mewling, shivering, sobbing disaster.

He breathes her name while stirring her meticulously, trying to restrain himself from grinding himself too hard against her. Maka realizes that he's playing her like an instrument, balancing carefully between fingering her and plucking at her nipple and singing his heated devotion with sighs and encouragements.

Her body is completely tense, waiting to be set loose like a catapult, and the release happens abruptly when he pulls his finger noisily out of her and swirls it soggily around her swollen clit. Maka folds up on herself in a feat of strength, Soul being dragged along, wrapped around her and incessantly stroking. She doesn't realize until afterwards that she yowls hotly during orgasm, her voice coming from deep in the lungs and hoarsely barreling out her throat. Her insides clench absently in aftershock, every flex making her jerk and shudder.

Is that the sound of Soul licking his fingers? She can't tell. Maka's trying to remember how to breathe. Her brain is sizzling and overheated. She never wants to move or think again.

Oh! That sneaky bastard! Was this his plan all along?

Soul freezes in the middle of dragging her body into a more normal position, hearing her through the bond and snorting. He covers them both with the blanket he had discarded in earlier haste.

"Ehhh....love you too," he offers sheepishly.

As it turns out, neither of them are very original people- but she decides that that's an acceptable answer.

* * *

Maka wakes up, belatedly hearing her alarm go off, or so she had thought. She sits upright in the silence, confused. Blinking her eyes in the sunlight, she discerns several things. Underneath the blanket there's a leg draped over both of hers like she's the back of a certain couch, a mess of white fur is peeking out from under her pillow that has been stolen during the night, and there's two alarm clocks on her bedside table.

More specifically, two cleanly cleaved halves of an alarm clock.

**"You are DEAD!"**

When Blair walks in to find out what the screaming is about and the witch's gaze abruptly jerks to the meister's chest, Maka discerns that she is shirtless.

* * *

She needs a quieter place to study. Despite the fact that the entire class is in the library for self-review (and thus should be respectfully  _silent_ ), Soul is cackling loudly with Black*Star, Kid is howling about how all books should have center-justified text on every page, and her father is crooning from twenty feet away, sending his "Ace the final" aura to her.

Maka stares at Tsubaki for awhile, trying to catch her attention. The usually calm weapon is currently battling a headache, pinching the bridge of her nose while her partner proclaims loudly that sober formals are for chumps, and how he will masterfully sneak in vodka to the party.

Tsubaki finally glances up towards Maka. They both silently agree to ditch the library and study elsewhere, but as soon as Maka is finished gathering her belongings, Soul plops down in the seat next to her in a cloud of annoyance.

She's decided that she will always end up with pinked cheeks whenever he comes near, and that he will just have to accept it as the norm. Distracted, she asks, "Are you okay?"

Soul mutters under his breath. "Look, if you're not going to wear the leggings, can you at least do something 'bout the skirt?"

"My- what's wrong with it?" She looks down at her crossed legs, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. It's the same style of skirt she's always worn.

Soul frowns at her, not wanting to say whatever the heck it is that's on his mind. He looks pointedly in a different direction, and she follows his gaze to Stein-hakase. The professor might be staring at them, but it's impossible to tell with the glare of his glasses. Maka is absolutely lost.

"Stein-hakase doesn't... like my skirt?"

Her partner groans, rubbing his face with a hand. He then grabs her pile of books, moving them curiously away from her. Soul leans into her, uncomfortably close- so much that she is immediately terrified that he's doing something intimate in the middle of the library. He puts a hand near her crossed thighs, sliding it in between her knees and unhooking one leg from the other. She's not blind to the sensual but otherwise displeased flick he gives to her skirt, brushing it closer to her knees.

"Everyone can see you under the table."

That's why he moved the things away... so she wouldn't brain him with a textbook. Maka feels her face light up like fireworks. Horrified, she looks up to see the professor still looking in their direction. GREAT. Why doesn't she just stand on the highest peak of Shibusen and rip off all her clothes and save herself the time?

To make matters worse, Soul says to their teacher loudly enough for the immediate students around them to hear, "Oi, you may be in my good graces 'cause of the bike, but won't stop me from carving out your perverted eyeballs."

Maka abruptly stands, reaching past the idiot and grabbing a textbook.

 **Wham.** "Don't threaten the staff you idiot!"

"The hell! He was staring at your-"

**Wham.**

Stein merely nudges his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose. "She  _is_  a fine specimen," he concedes.

Spirit, to her pride and ultimate shame, hears this admittance and performs a rather spectacular leg-drop to the doctor, screaming "Never to my daughter!"

She needs a quieter place to study.

From the floor of the library, she hears a groggy, "Uhhg, for someone with teddy bear panties, you're really fuckin' abusive." Maka drops her textbook on Soul's face with casual ruthlessness. She gives Tsubaki a signal and they escape together to freedom.

* * *

"I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him I  _hate all men!"_  
"You don't hate him. He's just insufferable. Has he asked you out yet?"  
"Uhh..?"

She and Tsubaki sit alone in the vastly empty classroom amidst a scattering of notes, open textbooks, and an open, half-eaten bento. Maka supposes it  _has_  been awhile since the last she's caught up with her friend.

Around a mouthful of food, Maka admits with rosy cheeks, "I kind of asked him yesterday?"

Tsubaki cheers with a clap. "Close enough! What did he say?"

The meister chokes a little. "Uhh he's gonna go." She doesn't want to mention anything about sexy panties and helping someone cheat off the final. "Anyway, I think we're already a thing. Probably."

"What? Really? What did I miss?  **Tell me everything."**

Surprised by Tsubaki's rabid interest, Maka tries her best to explain the feelings of the Soul Chain during and after her surgery, but she finds she doesn't have the words. How can she describe her soul being possessed to play piano? How can she explain the Black Room? How can she describe the ebb and flow of his comforting feelings as he holds her in his arms?

Tsubaki holds up a hand, halting Maka and her stuttering over words. "Okay wait. Here, let's try this. Bear with me. Has he confessed?"

_"What I feel for you is as insane as the black blood itself."_

"Pretty much?"

The look on Tsubaki's face isn't very encouraging. Maka takes another bite. She suddenly feels very small in the massive classroom, even more so under her friend's calculating stare.

"Have  _you_  confessed?"

_"Love you too."_

"P-p-pretty much?" If not off-handedly by  **accident.**

"Oh lord. Please tell me you haven't already done it without actually having admitted anything important."

Ah- this gut-sinking feeling again. What's a day without experiencing it at least once? "Maybe you should define 'done it.'"

On wit's end, Tsubaki grasps her by the shoulders, shaking her desperately. "IT! What other it is there? Maka! Sex!"

"Just checking, stop stop stop! We haven't done that!" After the weapon sighs in relief, Maka adds thoughtfully, "It's a little weird hearing you scream 'sex!' though."

Predictably blushing and releasing the blonde, Tsubaki covers her mouth delicately in attempt to regain her composure.

"So just what have you done? Kiss?"

"Yes!" Maka exclaims happily, glad to have a definite answer for something. Her friend claps politely. Pleased, Maka plucks another portion of food with her chopsticks.

"Second base?"

Nod.

"Third base?"

Blushing nod. Tsubaki squeals in delight. Maka's starting to believe that the young woman is a lot more perverse than she lets on. "Who did it?" The weapon demands.

"Did it? But we didn't," Maka asks, dodging the question. She holds the last bit of food halfway to her lips.

"Maka, darling, I'm going to strangle you-"  
"You say it so sweetly that I can't tell if you're actually threatening me or not-"  
 **"Who did the oral."**

"Erm. I did," Maka squeaks, shoving the food in her mouth and chewing with gusto to keep herself occupied while Tsubaki nearly falls out of her chair in barely-contained excitement. Recovered in an instant, the brunette leans forward, anxiously covering her mouth with fists.

"Did he... thank you?"  
"Excuse me?"  
"You know. Vice versa?"  
"Tsubaki!"  
"No?"

She can't believe she's having this conversation. Taking several deep breaths and steeling herself, she says "Last night Soul touc-GURGHPHM."

"Nakatsukasa," Soul says in dark greeting, keeping his hand tightly clamped over Maka's mouth. "Pardon my interruption. Gonna be borrowing her for a minute."

With barely contained giggles, Tsubaki slightly bows, saying, "Take your time!"

* * *

"I already got 'volun-told' for the formal's set-up committee because we came late, and it's  _by myself_  under Spirit's supervision, and now  **this.** Are you TRYING to get me killed?"

Soul has pulled the both of them hurriedly down corridors and on to one of the many balconies of Shibusen. It's windy today- the hot, dry air swirling around the spires and towers of the building and fluttering his hair into even more disarray, helping amplify his agitation.

He's backed her into a shady corner, leaning close with a hand pressed on the wall on either side of her, though his attitude is more weary than threatening.

"Get you killed? Not really, though why shouldn't I? I still haven't forgiven you for earlier."

He glowers angrily at her. "Spirit hasn't forgiven me either, even though I was protecting your dignity, and you know it. But more importantly, _don't be blabbing about what we've been doing!"_ Soul looks quite panicked, though he tries to cover it up with a stern frown.

"I'm not blabbing," she says defensively. "Don't eavesdrop! Tsubaki's my friend. What, is this supposed to be some kind of secret? Am I shameful or something?"

"What? No! No it's... uhhg, okay look- I don't know if you realize this, but anything you tell her, Black*Star knows.  _Intimately._ "

Maka thinks he's biting the inside of his cheek, waiting for some kind of response. Why is Soul so hung up on this? "Sooo.. he knows my menstruation schedule?"

Her partner makes flabbergasted, choking noises.

"What's the big deal? Why wouldn't he know? It's common sense- they're dating and have the Soul Chai-"

"Don't. Don't say it," he interrupts with a groan. "Can't take it. Geez, you never withhold information from  _her._  It's  **you**  without the common sense. What have you told her!"

"I still don't see the point, but I told her that-" she pauses to swallow embarrassedly, "..that we've...erm, reached third base-"

"Again, with the baseball metaphors..."  
"-and that I was the one who gave you a blo-wughmuughf."

Soul looks as if he's about a hair's breadth away from having a cerebral aneurysm. "Woman, didn't I tell you thirty-five seconds ago to not blabber? Don't you get it? He'll know everything!"

Maka grabs the hand covering her mouth at the wrist, pulling it and moving her face away. "How's it blabbing to YOU when  _you were there?"_

"Shush! Let me spell it out for you, bookworm, read my lips: If you tell Nakatsukasa Tsubaki that you  _sucked me off,_ " he hisses quietly, looking over his shoulder in paranoia, "Black*Star will sing it from the rooftops like the stool pigeon he is, and then your beloved _chiciue_  will murder me in my sleep! Or worse, he'll just  **prevent me from having children.** "

It's probably because she loves seeing him flustered, so it's the first thing that comes out of her mouth. "You want children?"

Soul blushes from hairline to collar, the bond inflating and bristling in self-consciousness. "You're missing the point here, Maka."


	19. Stand Inside Your Love

**Soul**

 

His meister is kind enough to warn him that Soul Perception is picking up the signature of her father. However, the fact that she sighs this information in little distracted gasps makes it difficult to process immediately. An annoyed peck on the lips had escalated into a sudden realization that he can  _get away with_  making out with her without a real reason or special occasion.

This is a fantastic discovery, so he's very grumpy when she says, "You better run," in cheeky amusement even though she's shyly gripping the collar of his shirt. Soul reluctantly leaves her on the balcony, going back indoors and slinking down the hallway in, he hopes, the opposite direction of Spirit Albarn. His luck holds true, not seeing so much as a red hair from the overprotective weapon's head as he makes his way back to the library.

Upon entering the massive room of books and students, he is immediately whistled at. Patti cat-calls while Death the Kid develops a sudden bout of asthma as Soul passes by. Though amusing, he implores Liz, who is watching the events of her meister's conniption unfold while stretching like a lazy cat, her legs resting in her sister's lap.

"What's wrong this time," he asks.

"Your tie's crooked," she drawls, flicking a carefully-polished nail in his direction. "Like a lot."

Soul looks down at himself. The garment in question is askew- Maka definitely must have a nerdy fetish for ties. While he adjusts it with a half-grin, internally pleased, he finds that it's the equivalent of a remote control for the torture device that is Kid's OCD. The more to the left Soul yanks, the more wheezing and fervent sobbing he hears from the shinigami.

He freezes in his entertainment and fears for his reputation when Black*Star calls out inelegantly behind him, "Oi virgin! Let's go get lunch!"

If he doesn't turn around, people won't stare. If he doesn't turn around, people won't-

**"Acknowledge your god!"**

Soul becomes intimately introduced to the floor as he's tackled. He decides that he's sick of floors and thinks it's very unfair that he's knocked down on them all the time.

* * *

"Should find out if Maka wants anything."

Black*Star scoffs as he casually strolls down the crowded hallways of Shibusen. "You are so whipped. She's eating with Tsubaki."

"How do you... You can hear her this far away? And I  _know_  it's Soul Chain, m'not retarded," Soul cuts the ninja off before his loud-assed mouth can mock him.

Black*Star's face morphs instantly into a devilish smile, which he directs to everyone they pass as they walk down the front steps of the Academy. "Though it's no surprise that you can't compete with the likes of myself, this only further proves that you're still a virgin."

He's going to kill him. And then, he'll kill all the witnesses. He lets the jab drop until they're well out of earshot of any of their peers. Walking on blistering pavement that he can feel through the soles of his shoes, he realizes that they're heading towards the same burger joint he had gone to just yesterday.

Yesterday: The greatest day in Soul Eater Evan's life to date, in which he had woken up next to, held hands with, been sucked off by, given an orgasm to, and gone to sleep alongside his meister. Oh, and got a new bike. Yeeeaaah.

He's getting off-track here. "What does having sex got to do with Soul Chain," he hisses. Black*Star looks thoughtful, which is a very strange combination. The ninja appears to be taking Soul's question into serious consideration. They walk in silence for a few breaths before the ninja answers with a question of his own.

"Why is sex so amazing? I don't know, guy. It's like magic. But sexy magic. The closer you are, the better it gets, and what's closer than your dick in-"

He groans, opening the door to the restaurant and smashing into Black*Star's face. The wave of cool air from inside is extra chilly on Soul's embarrassed cheeks. "Don't even know why I ask anymore."

Oh shit, he's picking up Maka's habits. Had he just wished for a textbook and settled for the door as a substitution?

Black*Star only laughs and shoves him out of the way to get to the ordering counter first. It takes him a full three-and-a-half minutes to list off his usual meal, which involves at least half the menu. Soul would be more annoyed, but being inside the building stirs memories of yesterday and snowballs into a huge, unsightly feeling of satisfaction, so he's too smug to really care.

When it's finally his turn, Soul adds a strawberry milkshake to his order.

* * *

Where is all that food  _going?_ He can eat quite a bit himself, but Black*Star takes the cake. And any other food-related prizes.

"Dude, you gotta get her to set up a study group or something, because if we can't cheat we're fucking  **bombed** tomorrow. **"**

Apparently, he hasn't been paying attention. He chokes around his fries. "Who what? How can we not cheat?"

"Welcome back to earth, jackass. Where the hell were you? Thinking about blow jobs?"  
"I hate you. For your information, I was trying to figure out how Nakatsukasa keeps you fed."

Black*Star grimaces, chewing angrily on a mouthful of ice after chugging the rest of his soda. "She doesn't. I should go order another thing of onion rings..."

"Wait, no. The test. What's this about the test?"  
"Ugh, you should have listened the first time instead of dream-fapping. Remember how I did almost as well as Tsubaki last term?"  
"Mm. Was friggen' creepy."

Black*Star doesn't elaborate, his lips pursed in a thin line.

"...Your weapon wouldn't help you cheat, would she?" Tsubaki is as by-the-book as Maka is, if not more so. But Soul's not so sure of that fact anymore as his friend merely raises his eyebrow in reply, casually stirring a fried cheese stick around in a small container of ranch dip.

"She's been helping you cheat for years, hasn't she."

"Every multiple choice quiz and test since she gave up trying to teach me anything," the meister admits, popping the entire snack into his mouth.

It's pretty difficult to outright speak over the Soul Chain- communication is established through feelings and ideas rather than words- so Tsubaki and Black*Star had developed a code. Tsubaki figures out a question, and then thinks of a certain shape that corresponds the the multiple-choice answer. She even occasionally tells him the wrong answer so they don't get identical scores. It's genius. It brings Tsubaki into a whole new mind-boggling light.

"Women are scary," Soul murmurs before taking a long draw on his milkshake's straw. "What happened? Get caught?"

"I guess I did 'too well' last time. They couldn't prove anything, but Stein announced that this test is going to be  _written_  format."

Black*Star can't sit still long enough for a written test, and Soul is usually too lazy to  _speak_  a complete sentence, let alone write one.

In short, "We're screwed."

"Bombed," the ninja says again.

"S'gotta be a way around it."  
"Yeah well, if you find it, you tell me."  
"Hell no, you never told me about your 'Soul Chain Cheat Code.' Forget it."  
"Oi, go buy your god some freakin' onion rings, already."  
"Phh. Go die."

* * *

Back in the Academy, Black*Star ditches him to go untie Kid's left shoe like a ten-year-old. Soul shoves a hand into a pocket, alternately sipping from his strawberry confection and chewing on the plastic straw as he meanders down the still-crowded hallways of Shibusen. Students file in as lunch break nears an end. He makes a glance into their homeroom, but finds neither Maka nor her co-conspirator, though he does find the latter coming out the library doors. Or rather, he finds the doors nearly swinging into his face in karmatic irony.

"Ohh sorry!" Tsubaki says, shocked. She is quite the amazon, still towering over him- though not as much as she had when they first became Shibusen students. She appears to be in a sudden rush. "Did Black*Star come back with you?"

"Uhh.." Oh yeah. This ever-polite gazelle of a weapon is the one who had been slyly supporting her meister academically, unbeknownst to the heavy eye of the entire Shibusen staff until just recently. The juxtaposition weirded him out a little.

Before Soul can answer her, he sees her eyes slightly glaze over, focusing on something very far away. When he realizes what she's doing, it's like the biggest sledgehammer to his pride, recalling how oblivious he had been to the whole Soul Chain thing.

"Ah, nevermind. I found him. Erm, sorry again." She apologizes with a bow and starts to trot off in the direction that Soul had just come from. Tsubaki turns around while jogging backwards to call out to him, "Maka-chan's inside if you're looking for her!"

He's pretty sure he's just had a conversation without having said anything himself. Disgruntled, he steps inside the library, which is a lot less crowded than it had been this morning, searching for his meister with the link. Soul is tugged ever so slightly to the right, and his feet instinctually take him straight to her.

No surprise that she's in the restricted section. Again. His own rank of death scythe gives him access, so he has no fear of being caught here, but Maka must hide behind a small pile of un-sorted books to not be noticed. She faintly acknowledges his presence on only a subconscious level- her attention completely absorbed in a dusty tome about probably everything in the world he's not interested in.

It's a childish need to be noticed that makes him wave his half-full milkshake in her face. Maka looks up, startled, taking the cup from him in surprised glee.

"Ooo! Aw, you've chewed up the straw," she says in dismay when she can't get as much out of it as she wants. He grunts, preoccupied with the idea that she has no reservations using something his mouth had been on anymore. Soul shifts an index finger into a blade, lopping off the first few inches of the plastic straw that he's mangled with his teeth.

"My bad," he says while she greedily drinks. Her mouth is freakin' distracting. "What're you doing back here? Surely this crap isn't on the final." He indicates the book in her lap while he sits on the floor in front of her.

She glances down at the massive brick of bound leather, her free hand toying with the corners of the dusty pages."On the final, no. For the final, yes. The fact that it's not multiple choice is making things difficult." Maka takes another long sip. "We can't do it like Tsubaki has been. I'm trying to figure something out."

"Don't see how we can do anything about... WAIT.  _How long've you known about Black*Star's cheat code?_ "

"Um. Forever," she says casually, taking a sip of milkshake, doe eyes directed at him innocently. False, false innocence.

Soul grits his teeth, leaning in close to her. "When were you planning on sharing this information with me?"

The girl snorts incredulously. "Why would I help you cheat, Commander Lazy-ass? I'm only doing it  _now_  because we made a deal."

"Cruel," He sneers. "You're cruel to me. You should hang out with  _Tsubaki-chan_  more. Maybe you'd pick up a thing or to on how to treat guys."

Maka flushes angrily, her eyebrows furrowing and lower lip jutting out in a pout. Dusty emeralds flash, offended. Soul finds it doesn't intimidate him at all, and only stirs something in him that heartily enjoys seeing her like this. She leans away from him, her back pressing up against the pile of books she hides behind. "She's definitely better than I am- she doesn't have to  **bribe**  her boyfriend to go out on a date with her."

Heh. He pulls away her hand that holds the cup of sugary strawberry sweetness. "Don't call me that," he says against her lips. Shock and foreboding flutters on the link, palpitating like the wings of a panicked bird. Her eyes widen in fear. " _Boyfriend_  sounds too temporary."

First confusion and then relief threatens to overwhelm him as she allows him to taste her chilled tongue. Life is pretty enjoyable for a few moments until she nails him on the head with a book for scaring her so. And another for having a hand already up her shirt. And another for interrupting her from studying on how to help  _him_ , the ungrateful jerk.

Soul should have known better. The library is her turf and armory. Her weapons are lined innumerably on every shelf in the room.

* * *

Through some combination of guilt-trippage, subliminal food cravings through Soul Chain, and textbook death threats, he ends up making three stops after school lets out- one two drop her off at the apartment, two to buy her a new alarm clock which he had apparently destroyed this morning, and three to pick up the ingredients they didn't have for lasagna.

He really  _is_  whipped.

Now his hands squelch together, sauce and cheese stuck under his nails as he tries to layer large, ruffled noodles properly in a casserole dish. They're like gigantic flatworms that wrap around his wrists and stick to every surface except where he wants to place them. Behind him, Maka questions him like the Spanish fucking Inquisition about how he had possessed her through the link the day before.

"Woman, I don't know what I was trying to do," he says exasperatedly. "I was thinking music,"  _squelch_ , "and then you were playing it."  _Slop._  "It was accidental." Soul spreads a layer of ricotta over the noodles with his fingers, because his hands are too slick to hold any kind of utensil without it slipping from his grasp and injuring himself.

"But I have to figure it out," she exclaims from behind him. She sits cross-legged on the counter, a different but equally intimidating book (doubtlessly taken illegally from the library) open in front of her, tagged heavily with sticky notes.

"Why? So you can... help me figure out how to spread this ...piece of shit wannabe cheese-"  
"No- though you do suck at it. For the final!"

Soul looks over his shoulder, blowing hair out of his eyes. "Haah?"

"I was trying to tell you before, but you...got all up in my face." She doesn't look in his direction, blushing a little with her eyes glued to the pages that she flips through erratically. "If I can do what you did, that test would be a breeze. I would basically take it  _for_  you."

He's a little touched that she's applying her massive bookwormy brain to help him cheat just so he'll go to a dance with her. Not to mention that seeing her do anything even remotely rule-breaking is inherently hot. Soul returns his gaze to his task at hand. Sauce flicks up and lands on his face, irritating him. "You don't have to try so hard, you know. Can always make it up with extra lessons or shit."

"I know you don't want Madagascar The Sequel. We have a deal. I'll keep my word," she says lightly, snapping her book shut and sliding off the counter. By the sounds of things, she's digging for a cup in a cabinet. As she fills it up with water from the tap, he mulls over just how their collision of a connection had happened.

It's hard to think about without remembering what had occurred afterwards. Or later that night.

Damnit, focus already!

"I had wanted you to hear me, because it wasn't enough at the time," he starts quietly, adding another layer of pasta to the dish. His hair keeps falling into his eyes and he has to toss his head every few seconds to get it out of the way. "Maybe 'cause you were listening as hard as I was trying to explain to you, it fit somehow."

Soul gets no reply from her. He looks behind him to find her gone, but she walks in to the kitchen again before he has time to be annoyed about it. Maka stops next to him, holding up one of his headbands and awkwardly slides it over his head, keeping his hair out of the way. He still doesn't understand why his heart twinges whenever she's near, or why she's always some shade of red whenever she's this close to him- particularly after having intimately touched each other already. Logic says that there's nothing left to be fucking bashful about, but the problem still persists.

He doesn't know about her, but as for himself he has a sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with hearing her voice when she comes, and that he can almost imagine it whenever she speaks.

She looks away, crossing her arms over her chest as she watches him fumble with his creation. "So we had the same goal in mind. Like flying." Maka had been listening after all.

"Mm." This is bad. All he can do is recall her cries when his hand had been between her legs. "Thinking of the same thing. An alignment."

He can feel her experimentally prodding at the link, trying to see it from a new perspective. Her proximity and manipulation of Soul Chain makes it extremely difficult to pay attention to what he's doing. The link tugs on him. She's wanting to bring his soul closer for inspection and he can't help but remember Black*Star's crude words about the closeness of other activities. He has his own pulling urge to messily smear his tomato-sauced hands all over her white shirt and faintly-tanned skin, and he thinks he's going lose his composure until she suddenly gives up her mental examination, sighing.

"When this is cooking," she points at the dish with a nod of her head, "you should try it again. I'll pay attention- I wasn't prepared last time around."

He doesn't know if he can manage it again, and he definitely wasn't prepared last time either, but he grunts his assent. Maka opens the oven for him while he sets the finished lasagna on the rack inside. While Soul washes his hands, she grabs her book, leaving to put it away in her room.

Walking into the living room, he collapses on the sofa, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees. He needs to get a grip or he's not going to stand a chance trying to possess her like before without wanting to grope her clear to next Christmas. Soul digs his palms into his eyes. His meister is trying to help him  _cheat,_  of all things. He should be ecstatic and planning ways to get her to do this more often. He  _shouldn't_  be fantasizing about making her strip-tease through the link.

But he's so screwed. Even if he did somehow manage to re-create that connection again, she'd know in an instant what plagues his mind. Soul wants to hear  _that voice_ , and he wants nothing more than to draw it out from her by any means necessary.

"Are you okay?"

Soul raises his head hurriedly. "Yeah." He doesn't have any more time to worry about it now. Maka plops next to him on the couch with a leg curled up under her, her body turned towards him. He knows she can already tell through the link that he's flexing an unusual amount of restraint, and she can guess it has something to do with her. It shows in her shaky voice when she asks, "What should we concentrate on?"

His desire fails to be leashed. It makes her nervous and fidgety, which only fuels him and makes him worse.

Come on. Think of something. Think of something other than wanting to desperately touch her. He can't let himself tune in on how her breathing quickens under his gaze, how her end of the link drowns all his senses in smoky anticipation, or how all he has to do is reach out and pull the rubber band holding up one of the tails of her hair-

And then he falls. It's sudden and abrupt- the living room dimming away and her soul roaring loudly within his disoriented grasp. He's confused, because he's positive they hadn't been mutually thinking of anything. But her hand reaches up to the side of her deer-in-the-headlights face, and slowly tugs a pigtail loose, lengthy strands of tarnished gold falling to her neck and brushing the collar of her uniform.

A grin nearly splits his face in half. He says out loud, though it's not needed, "It seems we have a common goal."

"This isn't... what it looks like," she breathes, watching in terrified curiosity as her other hand comes to free the other side of her hair. Her eyes slide to his warily.

 _"Okay, maybe it is,"_ she fretfully thinks.


	20. Soul Meets Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit content.

**Maka**

 

In order to help Soul pass the final as promised, Maka has been studying several subjects. On top of what she already must know for the test itself, she has flooded her mind with every bit of information she could find on the subject of Soul Chain.

Uncharacteristically cutting Physical Ed earlier today, it had taken her the entire class period to skim through the small stack of promising books just to find a name for the ability:  _Soul Sway._

When she finally knew what to look for, the search for more information was still more or less fruitless. At first, the most she could find regarding the possession of souls was about the kishin.

_"In the case of the kishin Asura, it is believed that [Soul Sway] was used for the sole purpose of deceiving Asura's weapon, Vajra, allowing him to control the weapon long enough to consume his soul wholly. It is said that Asura was a very distrustful and secretive man, and thus was able to keep his true incentives hidden from his partner, deceiving him and completely devouring the weapon."_

Because of this act of Asura's and the subsequent havoc wreaked on the world, Soul Sway had become an ability that is generally looked down upon by the public and higher intellectual circles. It's potential to be dangerous kept it from being taught at the academy. Being a taboo subject, finding legitimate data on it had been impossible. Maka had read many versions of the account of Asura, but she wanted to know how it  _works,_ not why it's kept under wraps, as it were.

There were no other official, documented examples of Soul Sway for her to find, though there was a small amount of speculative excerpts and theoretical analysis in the book that she had brought home with her to study. She's pretty sure that the collective scholars of Shibusen would probably not recommend it on their suggested reading lists, judging by the various and probably objectionable subjects it touches on.

Well, they shouldn't have stocked the tome in the library in the first place.

In this single book, Soul Sway is explained as 'an imbalanced Soul Resonance' as she had assumed, along with '-a very flexible, very suggestion-heavy tether between two linked souls.' Any number of things can create it, or keep it from existing. The author goes on to describe theories of the application of Soul Sway, such as compelling one's partner to respond with faster reflexes, lending strength, speed, information, and other useful abilities, all from a distance.

Likewise, the author lists all the possible dangers of entrusting one's soul into the domination of another- again giving the example of Asura and his betrayal of his partner. Maka had been put off by all the negative connotation on the subject, feeling disheartened, but then one line in particular had caught her attention:

_"It is unfortunate that one horrific example of Soul Sway keeps scientists from further exploring any of the beneficial potential that could be harnessed ..."_

Something about this line had nagged at her and, taking the bait, she had glanced at the cover of the book, searching for the author's name.

**Franken Stien, PhD.**

Maka had supposed that Shibusen's library must be obligated to keep the works of their own staff, after all. Clearly, it had been a sign. A challenge from beyond! She'll  _definitely_ harness the benefits of the professor providing answers to her problems. Maka's resolve to finish her quest had hardened ten-fold.

However, after all said and done, Maka finds her resolve quickly failing. What had started as an experiment has now quickly mutated into an accidental, mutual admittance of being  _uncontrollably horny._

Her composure is hard to maintain when Soul directs her hands to undo the knot in her uniform's tie. She complains, and he retorts that it wouldn't be happening if she would only deny him. Which is true. She needs merely to reject the strange, tingling numbness in her hands and she would be her own again.

Maka curses her curiosity. Soul removes the headband holding back his hair, flinging it carelessly to the coffee table.

"Soul," she says, kicking herself for her unsteady voice, " I'm supposed to be practicing possessing  _you."_

He leers at her from under an unruly cropping of white fringe, eyes branding her with their intense gaze. "You told me to do it again, so you would pay attention to how it works.  _So pay attention."_

"Forgive me, but it's hard to concentrate  **when I'm groping myself,"**  she grits between her teeth.

Soul gives her breasts a squeeze, though it's her own hands that perform. He casually tells her with a crooked smile to not think what he's thinking, and there won't be a problem. Right. Easier said than done. She's guilty as charged, trying to glare at him but her arms lift her shirt up and over her head, the blouse blocking her view until it too is flung on the coffee table.

His desires are practically being shouted at her over the bond, and Maka can't help but think of them as well. It's a vicious cycle of his need and her curiosity and the jittery amplification of both. Not to mention that their current connection is as strong as Soul Resonance and she can hear every thought Soul has- even the ones he's embarrassed about. Like how he's never going to call lacy, virginal, puppy-emblazoned bras unsexy ever again.

He wants her. He wants her to melt into him and never separate, he wants to melt into her her and  _pound her into next week_ , he wants to hear her voice calling for him so loudly that it shakes his bones, and if he doesn't feel her tits within the next five minutes there's going to be a serious problem with his mentality.

And now she understands the true meaning behind Soul Sway. Soul's thoughts are so tempting in their steaming, scalding urgency that she can't help but be consumed. He bombards her with persuasive ideas, things that he could do to her, with her, for her- but oh, how he shouldn't! But she's reacting in turn, is she not? Would she lean back just a little bit for him? Just like that, yes. Perfect. Would she kiss him back? He loves her tongue.

Wait, how is this happening? This was supposed to be a study-session of sorts. He's in  _her_  lap somehow, and tasting her mouth, trying to keep his breathing steady and his lust in check. She needs only to will her arms to life to turn the tables, but she has absolutely no desire to. Some resolve!

Maka didn't know he was this passionate, or maybe she did but never fully considered that passion being directed towards her. Though she had experienced a form of it in the Black Room, and felt little hints of it during private moments,  _this_  is a complete onslaught of her senses. Her body feels like she's encased, nearly drowning in the dangerous, burning pressure of his want. Soul's tongue delves into her, sliding and toying for awhile before moving off to press heated lips to every part of her skin he can reach.

Either because his mouth is occupied from teasing her neck with jagged canines, or because there are some things he can't say out loud just yet, he thinks the mantra of words he wants her to hear. It's not the shape that matters- their souls will be forever intertwined regardless- but it's definitely a bonus that he's completely enamored with her body. She's beautiful, and he can't deal with it anymore. He loves her so goddamn much, he hates that she's made him into this uncontrollable, hormonal, national emergency, he hates that he definitely hadn't thought to buy condoms while he was out, he can't believe she's still letting him fondle her like this, and he has no idea how they're going to pull this connection off during the test tomorrow, because he'll probably end up jumping her and bending her over a desk and-

Maka stops his train of thought. She finds her hands, moving them of her own volition and changing the connection, using a palm to press lightly against his groin. Soul makes a weird little strained noise against her throat, his body freezing with her touch. Instead of destroying the flow of Soul Sway, she tries to keep it intact. The current is shifting as she beats it back, calling it under her control and demanding that his soul yield to hers.

Soul Sway is just a matter of imbalanced Resonance, right? She needs to tip the scales into her favor. She floods the bond with herself, pouring into him, thinking and feeling loud enough that he can't resist her. The world seems to phase out and all her focus is tunnel-visioning to him and the familiar wavelength of his soul. Yes, think of what  _she_ can do for  _him_ , now. Isn't that a nice idea?

It only takes a little urging to get him off her lap so they can switch places. He's a little bewildered, because he feels like the black blood is taking control of him, except it's her instead. It's a little redundant in this case though- he would definitely do anything she asks. He's hers. She can crawl into his lap and demand him to grind up into her crotch anytime, even without...what did she call it? Soul Sway? Aptly named,  _that_  is. Ooh, he loves it when she runs his hands up his chest.

Having control over him is a strange sensation. As well as being able to know his every thought and reaction, Maka thinks she might be able to feel what pleasure is like for him. She can almost feel the tie in his hands as she directs him to remove it himself. It's extra confusing when they kiss- experiencing faint mirror-echoes of the sensation of her own tongue. Whatever he feels she can as well, for it's his body and soul she possesses, every stimulus repeated back to her like a feathery, light-fingered graze of smoke.

Maka is addicted to the sight of his eyes hooded in pleasure, but something on his face distracts her. Tomato sauce? He should take a thumb and swipe it off. Higher on the cheek. There.  **Taste it.**  Is it good?

Can she try?

She wonders what the hell has come over her and where her resolve has gone when he offers an open palm to her. Maka takes his thumb into her mouth, licking off traces of sauce and his own saliva, grazing lightly with teeth. His reaction is reward enough. She can feel him straining against the hold she has over him. Soul's arousal spikes impossibly over the bond, frustrated because she sets the pace to his bucking against her and he wants to go  _faster._

Her reign over his soul is short-lived. He's figured it out, and he's back in command again, usurping her and suggesting that she, for the love of all that is holy, press harder against him. He grips her hips and shoves her down nearly painfully against his straining erection. His jeans are chafing the insides of her thighs and she thinks that surely her skin will ignite. Maka wantonly undulates in his lap, letting him direct her as he pleases. Soul's hands fiddle with the clasp of her bra, and then, irritated, leads her to undo it herself. Pulling it away from her, he unabashedly palms her tits, molding and groping and pinching while she pants loudly.

She can't believe she's doing this with him, whimpering and mewing in his lap while he worries her skin in splashes of color with his teeth. But then again, she would never do this with anyone else. There's too much. There's too much that she feels for him to merely say in words. Can he feel it? Does he know of the massive vice in her chest that constricts uncomfortably whenever she thinks of him- her heart unable to contain so much? She doesn't know what couples are supposed to do, doesn't know how to show her love for him, doesn't have any song she's written to to play for him, so all she can offer is herself. He's always said that his life is hers, but in reality it is  _her_  life she entrusts to him. What can she do for him? He can do with her as he will.

Soul groans at this confession of sorts, crushing her to his chest and burying his face in the crook of her neck. "Don't tell me that," he says hoarsely, the words fire on her skin. "Might do something I shouldn't." His hips jerk up and press hard into her, and he keeps himself there, shuddering in restraint, wishing desperately that there aren't clothes between them. Maka moans helplessly at the pressure.

More. He wants more of her voice. He knows how to get it out of her. Won't she rest on the couch? It's more comfortable. Excuse him, but he'll be taking her underwear now. Geez, they're soaked. What- she can't be embarrassed  _now_ , save that for later. Will she lie still while he arches her mile-long legs up over his shoulders?

Her eyes widen in apprehension. Maka's unsure if she's questioned his actions out loud or through the bond, but he says in a raspy purr, "What's it look like I'm doing, woman?" While pushing her skirt up her hips, he then lowers his head between her thighs. " _Gonna lick you until you go stupid,"_ he thinks matter-of-factly.

Her weapon thoughtfully backs off on Soul Sway, it's hold on her dissipating, giving her freedom to escape if she doesn't want him to continue. The ratio of their souls is somewhere close to fifty-fifty, the resonance familiar and comforting. Maka can still hear his thoughts, and they are a mixture of smug excitement and soothing encouragements.

_"Just feel me. Enjoy this."_

Though she appreciates the freedom he has granted her body, it probably isn't in his best interests- she definitely can't keep herself from bucking and squirming, and he has to exert more force to hold her still enough to continue his attentions. Every touch of his tongue and lips makes her cry out blindly, her hands gripping his hair and shoulders for any sort of anchor.

She moans and gasps, shivering from the sensation and his revealing emotions: Her body is hypnotic. He wants so badly to be doing this to her  _with his dick._ He's totally going to die from blue balls. But then again, the look on her flushed face is so very, very satisfying, he may yet live another day. Can she still think coherently? He'll fix that.

Soul licks ruthlessly, definitely using Soul Chain to his advantage, finding the most sensitive areas of her folds and playing them until she's nearly sobbing. She feels like a worm, writhing and arching aimlessly, nearly crawling away from him when he surrounds her clit with his mouth, sucking warmly, holding her thighs and trying to keep them from suffocating his face.

_"Come for me, my meister."_

Even though he isn't possessing her body, Maka doesn't have a choice. With wave after wave pure intensity crashing through her senses along with Soul caressing her mind and body, her orgasm tears her apart.

While Maka tries to unsuccessfully pull herself back together, he languidly licks along her thighs, kissing her when they quiver in aftershock. Her throat feels raw, and she has a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with fifteen seconds ago. There's an incessant beeping and she can't figure out what it is.

"Dinner's ready," He grins into her leg.

If  _that_  is how they plan on studying from now on, she may as well drop out because she'll never pass again. Soul snorts against her skin. 

* * *

 

Maka feels intensely guilty, because hadn't he been sporting the boner of the century? Where did it go? Is he okay with that? Should she have...done something about it?

He doesn't  _seem_  to care as she watches him eat lasagna (that he made for her- cue another guilty jab) straight from the still-hot casserole dish and consequently burning his mouth in the process. She's not so sure if that's how he really feels though. She feels lost without the mind-revealing waves of Soul Resonance or any tangent thereof. Soul Chain feels pretty pathetic in comparison, and Maka catches herself straining to hear him better over the usual bond.

She's dressed in her skirt and  _his_  shirt, because he's used hers as a hot pad to rest the food on the table like it's totally acceptable. Sitting cross-legged on the floor next to him and picking at the extra crispy bits of pasta around the edges of the casserole for herself, she worries about where her undergarments have ended up, if someone can really  _die_  from blue balls, and if the two of them are going to pass the test tomorrow.

Soul is terribly pleased with life, alternating between fork and pen as he jots down music notes on a paper towel. His other hand is shoved somewhat possessively in the bend of her knee between calf and thigh. Maybe she shouldn't worry so much.  
Maka lays her head on the coffee table, chewing lazily. She feels sated, not even really hungry- only eating because the food tastes good. Her weapon sucks in air hastily to cool off the food he's impatiently shoveling into his mouth. She can hear the pen's scratching through the table her ear rests on.

The pen in his hand is the only goal she needs to reach for the test tomorrow. Surely it can't be that difficult. Especially after having exercised the ability as thoroughly as earlier.

"Soul."

He grunts, setting down his pen and picking up his fork once more.

"Let me possess you again." To his smirk and raised eyebrow she hastily adds while sitting up, "T-t-to see if I can make you write, that's all!"

Soul acts like he's unconvinced, chewing with a mocking, "Mm-hmm."

After a smack or two, she finally gets him to keep his mind out of the gutter for five seconds and, with the goal of Soul Sway in mind, allows her to take control of his body once more. It's the same strange feeling of knowing two bodies at once, and she tries to concentrate on that sensation rather than any others she may have felt during such a connection.

"I know what your thinking," he partially sing-songs at her failure.

"Shut up and pick up that pen," she grumbles.

"Yes, my meister," he says smugly. He carries on in his head.  _"Whose mind is in the gutter now? Is it still reeling from your humble servant licking your-"_

Maka suggests that he removes his perverted hand from her leg and stab himself with his pen. Despite being injured against his will, Soul doesn't reject her control, which leads her to wonder if he's a masochist. He replies internally that she doesn't know the half of it while outwardly he rants about how abusive she is.

She ignores his spluttering while compelling him to write what she wishes on a corner of his paper towel. She can nearly feel the plastic in his hand and the amount of tension he needs to hold it in between his fingers. When she leans over to see the results, releasing him from Soul Sway, he rubs the angry red mark with other hand, smearing the ink left behind.

He looks over her shoulder. "What'd you make me write? 'I hope your nuts fall off,' or 'Eat shit and die?' ..Oh-" Maka leans back out of the way and watches as a small smile twitches a corner of his lips.

"It's even my handwriting," he says, trying to play off his pleasure by changing the subject but utterly failing.

In a small quilted section of paper towel in scratchy blue ink were the words  _I love you._

* * *

 

"Oi. Found your bra."

"How the  _crap_  did it get over here," she hisses.

"Was in a hurry _,_ alright?"

White lace and innocent puppies lay strewn across the piano's keys. Maka worries that the temperature of her face is adding to global warming. "Well, what about the underwear?"

Soul shrugs, trying his hardest to hide the amusement on his face while running fingers through his hair. She exasperatedly snatches her bra and hurriedly goes to her room to toss it haphazardly on her dresser. They were running late. Again. At least he had destroyed his  _own_  clock this time instead of her new one. Her school record stands no chance of becoming untarnished any time soon, though she doesn't know why it should bother her as she skipped a class yesterday and today she aims on helping her undergarment-chucking partner cheat on the biggest final before summer break, like the big hypocrite she is.

Hopefully Blair wouldn't wake up and find her M.I.A. panties later.

Opening the front door is like running head-first into a wall of lava. The heat is stifling outside. Soul miserably grumbles while she shoves him out the door while pulling on her gloves. The temperature is worse once they're out from the shade of the stairwell, and she yelps when her bare legs touch the blistering seat of the motorcycle. He looks at her worriedly, but she just maneuvers her trench coat around to sit on, which helps a little.

He speeds, and Maka only lightly chides him through the bond because the wind is a relief on her face.

When they climb the stairs and enter the blissfully air-conditioned building of Shibusen, it's his turn to shove her forward, lazily head-butting her into moving because she only wants to stand still and cool off.

"Come on bookworm, time to take the easiest test of my life. Try not to think too pervertedly, can't promise what'd happen."

Her face is still flushed from his comments by the time they make their grand entrance to the classroom. When Soul strolls in smugly behind her she realizes she doesn't need to be linked to everyone in the room to know exactly what they are thinking. It also clears any confusion when Black*Star jeers loudly.

"Bow chicka wow-wow, what took ya'll so long?"

As soon as Soul opens his mouth, she smacks her hand over it. Maka considers it payback for all the other mouth-muffles he is guilty for yesterday.

"No comment," she manages to say in warning, though to whom she's not sure because she can feel the little bastard's tongue suggestively tracing her palm, distracting her. She should give him all the wrong answers on the test.

Professor Stein whirls around in his chair, rolling towards them and handing them their blank tests. "To your seats. The test has already started. You better hurry," he smiles a shade too sadistically.

Maka frowns, wiping her slobbery hand on Soul's sleeve. Is that a challenge? It  _sounds_  like one. Time to collect payment from the **leg-flashing show** at the library. Taking the paper from him she says, "I'm not worried. I think you'll be impressed with how hard we've studied your  _content._ "

Soul stumbles a little on the way to his seat. Stein lightly flicks a notch on the knob on his head in interest.


	21. Whatever Words I Say

**Soul**

 

The hell is she doing? Is she  _trying_  to get them caught?

The last two seats in the classroom are far apart. Black*Star is still waggling his eyebrows at him, but Soul merely shrugs as he passes him to take the seat in the back. He's disappointed that he won't be sitting right next to Maka to entertain thoughts of sneaking his hand in her lap secretively under the table, but he doesn't regret being late and very, very purposefully mutilating his own alarm clock this morning.

Waking up with her next to him is definitely worth any potentially embarrassing public moments, even if she's a hazard in bed and kicks him when he steals her pillow or when her arm is asleep because he's draped his own over it all night. Soul is greedy now. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to sleep alone again, or own any time-telling devices.

Anyway, no regrets. If taking separate seats is the price he'll have to pay- done. Plus from his vantage point in the top-rear of the room, he can see the fantastic bruise of color he's left just under her ear as she settles into a seat at the end of the right aisle. He doubts she's noticed it yet, because otherwise she probably wouldn't have worn her hair in pigtails.

She looks at him peculiarly over her shoulder, questioning his abrupt smugness over the link. He debates telling her and, after deciding that she can't fracture his skull with a textbook over the distance, pointedly rubs the corresponding area on his neck. Maka looks confused, feeling her own skin for something to brush off, silently mouthing "What?" Soul only smiles, grinning widely. His teeth give it away. Abruptly horrified, she stabs at him with colorful and rather unladylike feelings.

He learns she's been hiding a long-range version of Makachop in her repertoire. The novel he bought her in London comes sailing over their unsuspecting classmates' heads and glances off the side of his. He rubs the tender spot with a curse, and when he looks back at her, she has her left hand clamped over her neck, scribbling furiously on her test.

Heh. Oh right- the test. Should he be working on it until she pulls her puppeteer stunt? Soul glances over the paper in front of him. He still can't decide if she's working so hard just so he'll go to a dance with her or because some part of her brainiac pride is on the line. Probably the latter. After writing his name, he decides he's too lazy to even read. He'd much rather be still in bed, breathing in the smell of her hair. Soul catches himself doodling and changing random parts of text on the paper into eighth notes and triplets.

His song is almost finished. He needs to wrap up the last little bit and decide what kind of feeling the ending should leave with the listeners- though the only listener besides himself will be Maka. Will he be able to finish it in time? Maybe. Hopefully. He wonders if the piano from so many years ago is still there, down hallways and around dark corners, far away from where the entrance ceremony had been held. It's larger than the one they have at the apartment, and the room it'd been in is far more suited for music than their cramped living room.

Soul's hair stands on end as a sudden wave of unease settles on him. He looks at Maka, wondering if his feelings of discomfort are actually hers, but she's still writing in an insane, nerdular trance. She has this test in the bag- her end of the link is nothing but a murmur of analytical concentration.

Looking around, Soul finds the source of his discomfort. Professor Stein is staring  _right at him._  The fuck? He's not doing anything to warrant attention, right? He's not even asleep! He frowns at the scientist, who flicks the knob in his head a few times and directs his gaze to someone else in the room, like a spotlight or the Eye of friggen Mordor.

Oh  **crap.**  He's an idiot! How on earth was this plan considered a good idea? Stein can see souls! Wouldn't he know in an instant if they use any type of Resonance somehow? Is that possible? How had Maka overlooked this?

Maybe he  _had_  licked her stupid. What if making her come is killing her braincells somehow?

...Well she'll just have to get used to being dumb, he decides, kicking himself as he feels his face heat up.

Irritated, his meister glares at him over her shoulder. Her control over the link is impressive- it flexes and opens with ease so he can clearly feel her death threats. She may not know exactly what he's thinking, but she's knows enough, and he's left with the impression that she has plenty more books where that one had come from. As she turns back around, Soul feels her prod the link to let her possess him.

But Stein is looking straight at him again! Maka is impatient, wondering what the hold-up is, acting as if she's looking over her answers. He should just be resigned to the fact that he's going to end up with extra lessons again. Well, with any luck she'll be punished as well, considering the rate of her brain failure, and he could pester her to the ends of the earth and bottoms of the oceans on every make-up assignment imaginable.

Soul closes his eyes with a sigh and a frown, feeling for Maka's intentions and reeling them in. An abstract agreement is made. She wants to overtake him. He wants to be overtaken. When he opens his eyes, nothing appears differently, but he's aware of a completely different consciousness that thrums alongside his, swirling and merging and filling gaps he'd forgotten had existed.

It's equal parts fantastic and terrifying. He has the instinct to lash out and reject the feeling of being possessed, but Soul fights the impulse. Maka is a far different host than Little Ogre.

He feels her and her particular brand of soul. It's naively stubborn, or maybe stubbornly naive. She isn't made of dark and even darker secrets like the black blood, but neither is she made of light and otherwise disgustingly pure things. She's somewhere in between, sometimes morose, sometimes cheery, quick to anger, and easy to please. She's queen of aggressive friendliness and subtle love. He wonders if all souls feel like wind rushing through his ears, or if it has something to do with Grigori souls and powerful wings.

It's a little self-alienating watching his hand move without any cues from his brain. Stein's shining lenses visually pin him to a tray and dissect him like a frog. He thinks hastily to her,  _"That guy totally knows what's going on."_

Maka doesn't care in the least. He should write down the answer to the second question. What grade does he want?

_"Uhh... passing? Does it even matter? We're already caught!"_   
_"I know, that's the plan. Just go with it. And quit fighting me, you're making it difficult."_

Soul realizes he's been trying to get control back of his hand, battling the numb itch that's concentrated in his fingertips. He's frustrated and confused and feels in the dark because she's probably left him out of the loop again.  _"Sorry. It feels...weird."_

 _"I haven't left you out of the loop purposely. I assumed you wouldn't be interested in my_  'bookworm' _plans."_

Well that's a valid point. Soul hasn't seen himself write so quickly while simultaneously on school property. He's only written with such frenzy while composing at his piano or when he wakes up in the morning with notes stuck in his head. Maka is amused by this, explaining that this is  _her_  music. Academics are only things she can do with passion.

 _"But that's not true, is it,"_ he assures her.  _"You made me a Death Scythe, after all. Didn't wield myself."_

Maka remains unconvinced, directing him to turn the paper and start the answers on the back of the test. He feels her thinking over her own answers and flipping words around, re-phrasing to make his different. He can tell when she purposely puts partially incorrect or even blatantly wrong answers, to his chagrin.

Well whatever. Even if she doesn't believe it, she certainly has passion in  _other_  moments...

_**"Finish that train of thought and die."** _   
_"What- tryin' to point out your qualities. Most of them are when we're in bed. Or in the living room. Or the library. Or on the balcony."_

_"D-minus is a passing grade, right?"_ She thinks scathingly.

 _"Yeah, yeah,"_ though Soul still doesn't see why it matters, or why she tries so hard to make his test convincing even though she knows it's futile. The professor is staring at Maka now, ever adjusting with that disturbingly loud knob. He's probably watching their souls mingle and do...whatever it is souls look like they do. Either that or staring at that glorious mark on her neck, which Soul is very proud of and wouldn't blame the scientist for wanting to study intently. At a distance, of course. If he lays so much as a disconnected finger on her, Stein's ass is grass, Shibusen staff or not.

Soul gloats as he watches his hand pause for a moment, his meister's concentration thrown off-balance.

_"So why are we purposefully being caught again?"_

Maka claims it's for science, which makes him scowl on multiple levels. She doesn't have time to explain further, finishing his test and hastily severing connections to his body so quickly that it leaves him reeling. Professor Stein announces the end of the testing period. Soul feels too empty after having been utterly combined with her, like the space his soul normally occupies is much too large. His consciousness fumbles about in the dark. He flexes his hand, testing his control while the creepiest teacher of Shibusen drones in monotone about the end of the semester, the formal on Friday, and summer classes for the fuck-ups.

He's probably going to be one of those, again. Especially after being caught cheating.

Then again, the professor hadn't said anything, or even stopped them. He'll admit it, he's absolutely stumped. Why hadn't they been immediately seized and tortured for obviously doing things they shouldn't have been during a final? He passes his test forward, standing and stretching when Stein's little speech is concluded. Bending over to pick up Maka's smut novel from the floor, he shuffles down to her while the classroom erupts in an excited clamor for the early end of the school day.

Maka is hastily untying her pigtails by the time he makes it to the bottom of the classroom. She chats queitly with Tsubaki, doubtlessly conspiring. Black*Star looks pleased as he sits on the edge of the table where Maka is seated. Soul leans against the wall, waiting for other students to file out of the room in freedom.

"Cakewalk," his friend says with a devilish grin.

Soul raises an eyebrow. Black*Star calling a test a cakewalk after only yesterday complaining how much of a nuclear bomb it would be trying to pass raises his suspicions to new heights. This sounds like Maka territory. Taking a closer look, his meister and Tsubaki  _are_  kind of talking in hushed tones, and with more hand gestures than usual.

"Oh god. She roped you two into this too."

Black*Star nods vigorously, immediately shrugging off Soul's apprehension and calling out to Kid. He invites him and his weapons out for a celebratory "boozefest on the town.'

Liz says nothing, though the grimace on her face spells paragraphs on how much she'd rather  _not_  go to Black*Star's favorite dank and gritty bar. Patti wonders aloud if it's a little too early in the day to be drinking. The Thompsons' meister looks haggard from taking the test (or his attempt at making it past the first line). "Pass. Alcohol doesn't make any sense to me. You all are welcome to use our pool, however," Kid offers, probably out of wanting to return to his symmetrical mothership to recuperate than actual hospitality.

"You have a pool? Can we drink?" Black*Star asks eagerly.

Death the Kid appears to be trying to keep his skull intact, mashing his hands into his face. "If you must," he says listlessly.

"You and Soul in, Maka?" Black*Star nudges her with an elbow in glee. Maka leans around the ninja to look at questioningly at Soul. The link is flavored with uncertainty, and he wonders what Maka would be like inebriated. Probably dangerous and five million times more likely to give him a concussion. However, his meister in a swimsuit may outweigh the possible cons.

In any case, they should probably get the hell away from here before Stein holds them back for interrogation. The professor has already finished tidying up the stack of completed tests and has swiveled his chair to face their small group that has lagged behind in poor judgement.

He's about to say "Sure, whatever" when his  _other_  arch nemesis busts into the classroom like a man on a mission. After a brief scan of the students still remaining, Spirit Albarn sets his sights on Soul.

He can already feel his dreams of swimming pools and bikinis slipping through his fingers. Spirit looks slightly relieved at the sight of Maka not being connected at the hip with the younger weapon, though he makes a minor convulsion at the sight of Black*Star sitting so close to his daughter. He says nothing on that subject however, an intensely pleased look plastering his face.

"Evans."

"What now, Gramps," Soul reflexively retorts, resisting the urge to kick away from the wall and stand his ground, the hackles of his pride rising. His last name is never meant to be condescendingly spat out like a fucking loogie onto pavement. His mood may not have been exactly chipper before, but it is definitely sour now.

"Have you forgotten already, peon of the set-up committee?"  
"You've gotta be kidding me. You said that's tomorrow!"  
"Why put off to tomorrow what you can do  **right now?"**

"Papa? What are you doing here?" Maka asks in confusion.

Her father swoons, being directly spoken to by his daughter. "My darling, your deviant weapon is going to serve his sentence by preparing the ballroom for the dance on Friday."

"By myself," Soul grumbles, wanting nothing more than to melt into the wall and escape. Black*Star cackles while Maka looks thoughtful.

"Oh yeah- I remember you saying something about that... That sucks. Have fun!" Maka exclaims, dismissing him easily, turning back to Tsubaki and whatever crazy psychotic chick planning they had been discussing earlier.

That little.. she was just as late as he was yesterday, but she's not being punished at all! "Oi, Spirit- Maka's hair is down today. Doesn't it make her a little more... adult?"

The resulting gasps (one of horror and one of  _extreme_ horror) and the scramble between father and daughter cause such a racket that Black*Star is forced to flee his perch while Spirit tries to part Maka's hair into pigtails and Maka desperately tries to keep the hickey on her neck covered.

"Innocent hairstyle! You must keep your innocence!"

Soul dimly hears Liz inform Tsubaki that she and her partners will be at the mansion, and that everyone's welcome to come over and hang out or whatever, but he's more focused on Professor Stein actually  _getting up out of his chair_  and walking over towards them all. The tall man easily plucks Spirit away from Maka saying, "My apologies sempai, but I need to see Soul before you put him to work."

Damn it all to hell. He should have just shut up and gone with Maka's father. It probably would've been the lesser evil.

* * *

No longer to his surprise, Black*Star and Tsubaki are led into Stein's office as well as Maka and himself. Formaldehyde is a smell that he can't get used to over time. It's always there, existing, his awareness of it never fading away no matter how long he's engulfed in it, feeding a headache that he finds is stemming from where Maka's book had collided into his skull.

Getting right down to it, the girls and professor immediately start spewing science and theories. He's trying to follow along, wanting to know if they'd been miraculously let off the hook and  _why,_  but god damn, that's a lot of syllables to keep track of, and his head is pounding. Black*Star is already looking for other sources of entertainment, and Soul is worried that it has something to do with an unidentifiable creature floating in green goop in a display jar.

"I think I just had an idea for Kid's pool."

"What?" Soul hisses, his mouth underneath the collar of his shirt. "But I wanted to swim. Though don't know if I'll actually get to, at this rate," he says while pointedly glaring over his shoulder at one particularly morbid, possibly voyeuristic obstacle in his way, who easily ignores his stare.

"No shit, dude. I'll do it afterwards. And when the girls are still in."

"Oh." Well that's a fair plan. "Yeah, alright then."

Black*Star looks over his own shoulder to make sure Stein doesn't watch him sneak the jar into his pants.

"That's not conspicuous at all," Soul deadpans.

"Dunno what that means, but hopefully he isn't gonna be starin' at my junk."

One can hope. Glancing at the professor once more, Soul realizes that Stein is finally saying things that are relevant to his interests.

"I concede that my curiosity got the best of me," he drawls, his tone slightly annoyed. "That doesn't make it okay to cheat, or to flaunt your abilities in hopes of making it okay."

Though her head is bowed as if chastised, Tsubaki still stands tall with confidence. Maka has a determined look on her face, eyes gleaming in the glow of lanterns and wall sconces. "But?"

"But, I can overlook it, granted I study it further."

Maka cheers while Tsubaki bows gratefully, but Stein cuts their celebration short, his tone stern and directed towards Soul's meister. "However, it will be Black*Star and Tsubaki that I will study. As interested as I am in possible outcomes, as your teacher I have to advise you and Soul to not use this ability unless extremely necessary."

What's this about? Maka's sure and steady flow of confidence has abruptly halted, becoming flustered along the link. "I... don't understand. Is there a danger?"

"If Asura could hide his true intentions from his partner, it may not be difficult for other things to hide underneath the surface as well."

Wait, hold the damn phone. Soul yanks his shirt from his face in alarm. "Asura?  _The kishin?_  Run that by me one more time?" His voice uncomfortably bounces off stone walls and specimen tanks, and Maka appears to be in two separate stages of shell-shock from being warned by Stein and from Soul's sudden outburst. "Maka- what have you not told me?"

She looks bewildered, not prepared for such a question. She leans slightly back and away from him, taking a defensive position. "What? Nothing important," she says with a slight hint of unsurety at the recent turn of conversation.

Tsubaki behind her gives her a strange and worried look. "The kishin is not important?"

"I don't see why, for something as simple as this..."

Soul looks to Maka again, who seems sincerely confused and is re-evaluating herself through the link. Tsubaki isn't saying anything, her lips pressed into a thin line, and Black*Star looks as absolutely lost as he himself feels, so he turns to Stein because obviously he's not going to get answers from anyone else. "What does Soul Sway have to do with Asura," he asks with dread.

Stein crosses his arms over the back of his swivel chair, his lab coat rustling as he leans forward. "The kishin used it to control his weapon and devour him."

" **Whaaaat.**   _How?_  Why didn't his weapon reject it?"

The professor nudges his spectacles further up his nose, his calculating stare coming into focus for a brief moment before the glare of the lenses hides it once more. "Vajra didn't know. Asura was very careful. He bided his time, keeping the truth hidden even in Resonance."

"Okay... so that's creepy, but what does that have to do with me and Ma-"

God damn it. He's already figured it out as Stein practically spells it out for him. "I mean to say that  _that_  could be a potential problem, particularly if you switch roles and you are the one controlling her. Hypothesis of course, but risk is risk."

Says the guy who had probably used himself and Soul as test-dummies with the black blood. Soul would like to be irritated, but he has other problems on his mind.

Were they safe? How many times had he controlled her? Once on accident, once- no,  _twice_  more after that. Had he unknowingly transferred something to her while possessing her soul? If he had stopped to think about it for  _five fucking seconds,_  he would have realized how dangerous it all was. Maybe if he hadn't been lured into a false sense of security like an _average horny teenager,_  he wouldn't have been stupidly ignoring his black blood and its lurking threat.

Black*Star asks Soul what Stein means by  _that,_  but Tsubaki puts a delicate hand on her meister's shoulder to silence him for the moment. Soul can't spare any time for an answer anyway. He feels Maka catching on, or at least feeding from his own emotions, her self-confidence rapidly sinking into something a little more fear-driven. It stirs his feet subconsciously, bringing him alongside her to place a hand at her elbow to reassure her, or maybe himself, though it helps neither.

"But nothing is wrong, right? Nothing's happened so far," he asks, though he's not sure who even though he looks at her and watches her eyebrows furrow in confusion.

As if twisting the dial in his skull for emphasis, Stein announces they both appear to be fine.

"Soul?"

The sudden relief of release from his immediate worries now gives him room to be furious.  **That idiot!** She has no concept of common sense! Neither does he, for that matter. What have they been doing all this time? He blurts it out before he can stop himself. "What the hell are you risking for just a stupid test?"

Maka's eyebrows furrow, not expecting his anger to be directed at her so fiercely. She takes her end of the link, wrapping it around herself like a shield from his sudden onslaught. "Risk what?"

"If I had known it was something that  _reckless_ , I wouldn't have-"

"It's not like I was going to eat your soul or anything," she says, her voice going up a few notes higher in offense. "You think I would betray you, Soul? You think I'm like Asura? What the hell do you take me for?" Maka shakes her arm out of his grasp, turning to face him fully.

"Oi,of course I don't think that-"  
"What's the problem then?"  
"The problem is that _someone_  was withholding information again! Use your head!"  
"What information? What Asura did is irrelevant! I would never betray you so it doesn't matter!"

 **"Of course it fucking matters,"**  he roars. It stabs him when she takes a step back from him, startled by his yelling, but she doesn't get it. She actually  _believes_  that he thinks she'll go Asura on his ass and eat him! How retarded is she? "Fucking SHIT, woman, aren't you supposed to be the smart one? I trust you, yeah, but did you not think for one second that maybe it's me you shouldn't trust? Or that my  _ **black blood**_  could've fucked something up?"

She hadn't. He can tell. Maka blinks rapidly in confusion, her voice quieter and shaky when she asks, more to reassure herself than to represent her case, "Why would it? We haven't had any problems with it- not really. My wavelength keeps you sane- I .. we have it under control, don't we?"

Soul tries to keep his cool, lowering the volume of his voice but it still comes out angrily, stinging like snakes. "Would you have control over it if I were possessing you again? Want to find out?"

Soul Resonance is one thing. He can keep the demon in check then, at least with her. But overtaking her soul? He doesn't know anymore. Is she right? Does the black blood have no power over her? Have they just been lucky? Or is the demon biding his time like the kishin, waiting to strike? She should have known better!  _He_ should've known better! Just because they have a good record so far doesn't make the black blood safe.

Nothing had gone wrong. It's a fucking miracle, but nothing had gone wrong. He should just be grateful and happy, but all he can feel is his furiousness at obliviously putting her in danger. Frustration swarms him and makes his headache pound in time to the ferocious tempo of his heart. Soul wants to remove himself from the physically tangible pressure of the room, so he flees, angrily growling and slinking out the door.

* * *

"Move this table to the far wall, slave."

Soul grumbles into his shirt that he uses to wipe the sweat from his face. He has stripped it off, along with his socks and shoes, because it's so god damn hot in the gigantic room that anything more than his pants is unbearable. He sits on the blessedly cooler floor (which he has thoroughly swept and mopped), rolling up the hems of his jeans to his calves. Soul glares haughtily at Spirit, who is resting on one end of the long, cafeteria-style table in question like a divan, his suit jacket pillowed under his elbow, fanning himself lazily with a folded-up decorative banner.

"Know you hate me, and probably for valid reasons, but I can't move a huge-ass table with a huge ASS already on it like a pretty princess."

Spirit shoots him an un-offended sneer. "Pretty Princess says  **try harder."**

"Can I try harder with my foot in your face?" Soul stands up with a grunt, his tone polite. "Say the word, and I'll  _try my hardest,_ no questions asked."

"Move this table to the far wall and I'll think about having the air conditioner turned on," his meister's father says with a sly glance to the painfully silent, industrial-sized air vent in the ceiling. Soul pants, feeling sweat trickle down his spine.

"The hell is it off in the first place?"

The red-haired man merely shrugs in false nonchalance. He's convinced that Spirit is the bane of his existence. Soul is satisfied however, because now he has some outlet to direct his pent-up aggressions from earlier, working the stress out of his body with physical labor. Growling once more in frustration, he runs at the other weapon, shoving his weight into the edge of the heavy table. The force jars his elbows, his bare feet squeaking and skidding back on the glossy floor.

The table moves all of two-and-a-half feet. Soul catches his breath, gripping a corner of the table top while sinking heavily to his knees.

"Wuss."

Oh fuck, no. With a howl, he shoves his shoulder against the table, it's edge digging painfully into his skin, barking curses while trying to find purchase on the floor with the balls of his feet. In between grunts he admits his regret that the devil is Maka's father, and if Spirit weren't, he would be dead fifty times over by now for all this harassment. The table moves another foot or so, Spirit smiling happily at his efforts.

"I would personally dismember you," he hisses in between clenched teeth,"and send you piece by piece to Stein so... he can put you back together how he sees fit, if she didn't... love you so much!"

"She does?"

Maybe it's the candid way the older man says it, or maybe because nothing derogatory is involved, but it catches Soul off guard. He looks up with a confused, "Haaah," his left foot slipping on his own sweat, flinging out behind him. The table's edge scrapes painfully on his shoulder and catches his right temple (in the same fucking spot Maka's book at connected with earlier) as he falls sideways. In pain, he melts to the floor, groaning, his voice echoing dully from the ceiling.

Perhaps he should just stay on the floor for the rest of his life. Things may be easier this way.

Spirit looks down at him from over the edge of the table. "What'd you do that for?"

Sighing in annoyance, Soul deadpans, "Decided I could use more brain damage." Who needs to remember the first ten years of their life anyway? Speaking aloud makes his head throb, and he immediately wishes for some aspirin, an air conditioner, and a strawberry milkshake. Rubbing the side of his head gingerly, he wonders what time it is, and if Maka has gone to Kid's pool party thing. More likely she's at home, alternately raging and sulking over his un-cool performance earlier, ready to smack him with a dictionary the moment he walks in the door.

He's probably concussed, because his mouth starts moving without his consent. "You're daughter is impossible. She has no idea what self-preser _fucking_ vation is, and I finally understand why you're so disgustingly overprotective of her."

A moment passes in blissful silence, and Soul wonders if maybe he's actually passed out. Then a miracle happens. Spirit gets off the table and actually offers a hand to help him up. The man doesn't looked pleased about it, but his grip is firm until Soul is steady on his feet. He even goes so far as to help him shove the intimidating table to the wall before hopping back on it, legs dangling off the edge.

"Hang up this banner, slave," Spirit says, holding out his previously discarded 'fan' and jerking his head to a ladder set up on the adjacent wall.

Soul eyes the ladder wearily as he meanders his way towards it with his new task. The rungs of the ladder are uncomfortable and warm on his bare feet. He has to rest once he's at the top- bodily weary and gritting his teeth against the pain in his temple. As he tries to unfold the banner, he hears a loud mechanical  _thump,_  and scoffs when the vent in the ceiling spews out steadily cooling air.

He  _definitely_  must have passed out.

Spirit's shoes shuffle and probably scuff up the nicely-cleaned floor as he stands a few feet away from the bottom of the ladder. "She loves me, you say?" He sounds bored, but his hopefulness is amplified in the big room. Spirit tries not to show his intense and desperate interest, and Soul thinks that particular facial expression is where Maka gets it from. He feels the cool air starting to evaporate his sweat. He turns around, tying one corner of the banner to a hook in the wall.

"She doesn't like showing it, 'cause you disappoint her so much." Judging by the uncomfortable noise Spirit makes in his throat, he's well aware of his failings. Soul steps down a few rungs to attach the lower corner of the banner. "She gets sad when her flowers die," he says. He looks over her shoulder, "Oi. Get her flowers in a  _pot_ next time. Don't make her depressed. It pisses me off."

It seems just talking about her brings her into existence. To Soul's surprise, he catches faint hints of her on the link. What is she still doing around the school? She should have left by now! That idiot- she better not be waiting for him. Soul tries to reach for her through Soul Chain, wanting her to go home, but she's either too far away to hear him or ignores his efforts.

Walking down the rest of the steps, he has to juggle the other half of the banner while scooting the ladder further to the left to hang up the other side. Spirit doesn't say anything regarding his previous comments, but Soul thinks he's made a mental note.

Looking towards the entrance more out of instinct than anything, he sees the girl that has both weapon's hearts inexplicably wrapped around her little finger cracking the wide doors open and sticking her head inside the ballroom in curiosity. Soul hangs up the third corner of the banner, wondering what he should say or if he should say anything at all. Maka's boots clack lightly on the floor until the sound is overtaken by Spirit and his glee at their visitor. She holds a brave face while trying to keep up with her father's crooning and questions about how she thinks she did on the final.

Risking a look over his shoulder, Soul catches her fleeting glance, and notes how many rapid blinks it takes for her to keep his exposed skin from the forefront of her thoughts.

"Will you let him go for the day, Papa? It's past lunch time now."

* * *

His hooked fingers carry his shoes with his socks stuffed in them while she cradles a neat bundle of the rest of his clothing, his tie dangling down to her hip, swaying with each step she takes. His bare feet slap loudly on the blessedly cool hallway floors. Soul's tempted to lay on the floor and rest his head on the tiles.

He doesn't like this awkwardness. At least she's walking beside him. She doesn't appear to be angry. In fact, she's wondering if he's angry at  _her-_  the link a solemn, irritatingly quiet thing that makes him feel like a complete douche.

"Why didn't you go home," he grumbles.

"I figured you'd want to go eat something," she says quietly.

It's eerie to see all the hallways empty and devoid of life. He stops walking, reaching out with his free hand and tugging on her trench coat. One of her boots skid loudly on the floor. "I'm not  _that_  mad, really," he says to her back.

"I-I know," Maka half-laughs, trying to keep her voice light. She won't turn around, only partially facing him and hiding behind a curtain of hair.

Soul feels his shoes slide from his fingertips. He hopes she can understand through the link how regretful he is for exploding at her, because the subject of the kishin had sneaked up on him and he hadn't known how to deal with it. He's so frustrated and  _afraid_ for her- what kind of weapon is a threat to his own meister? He pulls her backwards to him, turning her around and moving her hair out of the way to press his mouth to hers.

She tries to juggle his belongings into one arm, but gives up, letting them fall to the floor as well. His clothes land on top of his feet as she wraps her arms around him, gloved fingers pressing firmly into his skin. He kisses her face, planting his relief on her skin that isn't warped with the insanity that he could have unknowingly given her, and rests his forehead to hers.

"I'm sorry, Soul."

He is too, but he can only put his head in the crook of her neck.

He finally gets to the heart of the matter, feeling her apprehension through Soul Chain. She hadn't been thinking, and she promises to not keep the black blood's silence for granted again. Her doubt swirls chaotically, knowing how he had wanted to dissolve their partnership the last time he had feared to cause her harm, and seeing him turn away from her in Stein's office had shaken her.

"M'not planning on leaving," he murmurs into her collar.

Maka hugs him a notch more tightly. The link wraps around them both, tangling up their mutual, muddled feelings of worry and love.

"Even though you  _are_  pretty abusive."


	22. Help I'm Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit content. And cheesy one-liners.

Maka

 

 

Like father, like daughter.

Four of the most wretched words in her universe repeat in her like a heavy, inescapable mantra. Her attraction clearly must have clouded her judgement. Had she put reality on hold in lieu of being felt up on her living room couch? Is she lusting after her partner, ignoring all responsibility like a certain Papa and one of his many conquests?

Idiot!

...And now she's lost. So distracted in her thoughts, Maka has somehow taken a wrong turn (or five) down identical corridors with polished marble flooring. Curse this ridiculously excessive place!

It's not her first time at Death the Kid's mansion, though it is the first time she's arrived so casually dressed. She wanders around barefoot and in a bikini, after having peeled off her tank top and shorts she'd worn to the estate in one of many grand bathrooms. She feels extremely out of place among multiple statues, busts, paintings, and large pillar candles whose flames are deathly still until Maka walks by- disturbing their calm reach for the arched ceilings. She unfolds and wraps her beach towel around herself firmly.

She stops and listens for the faint sounds of Black*Star hollering and wreaking havoc by a pool she isn't positive she'll ever find. Maka can't decide from which corridor she hears his rambunctious jeering. He's too far away for her Soul Perception (just how large is this stupid mansion, anyway?), and his voice echoes off walls, dizzily changing direction, so she can't definitively pinpoint which way to go.

The loudmouth himself probably could, she grimaces in acknowledgment, being an assassin of sorts and trained to hear the faintest of noises. That jerk. And Soul probably could as well, what with his peculiar sensitivity to music and sound in general. A certain obsession with her voice comes to mind and heats her face. The memory of his words are enough for every nerve in her body to suddenly pang with a surge of sparks.

"Come for me, my meister."

She swallows thickly, heart thumping rapidly in her chest.

In a flustered huff, Maka turns left, hoping it's the right choice, not wanting to admit to herself that maybe she ought to stay lost for a little while longer so she can cool off her sizzling thoughts. With a deep breath to focus and calm her nerves, she forces the bond as wide as she can, stretching it to the very limits of awareness, to find her partner and hopefully zero-in on his steadfast, unfailing wavelength.

Loyal Soul. And for what? What is Maka capable of? She can get lost in someone's house the size of a stupid airport. She can give people concussions with textbooks. She can cheat on tests using an ability that puts not only herself, but her partner in danger like a rookie meister. She can lose all sense of moral integrity from just a glance from him...

Must every thought process end with Soul? This is obnoxious. She wants her brain back. If she doesn't get it back soon, she might turn into.. a harlot or something! What is a harlot, anyway? If it's anything like being a cat in heat, she may already qualify.

Maka lets out an irritated, frustrated scream. Her voice echoes hollowly down hallways, bouncing off walls and making dainty, glass vases tremble in her fury. Perhaps Soul hears her, because she finds a smoky ringlet of his end of the bond stretching to hers before her echoes have even faded. He's waiting, pretending to be irritated at her lateness, trying to nonchalantly inquire after her state of mental health.

She's just peachy. Maka tries to hide the fact that she's lost and oversexed, feeling useless and still bitter about forgetting something as blatantly obvious as the black blood because his lips are so damn distracting. Maka finds herself gripping him tightly through Soul Chain. She tells herself it's only in a slight desperation to be free of endless corridors, but she knows better. As her feet guide her to him, the bond eases around her, curious about her discordant emotions and, when Soul gives up trying to decipher them, flutters lightly about her like unseen moths in the dark.

She tries very hard not to crave the heavier, more encompassing contact that she has come to be addicted to over the past few days. She will not take after her perverted father, even if it's the last thing sane act she performs in her life.

As she rounds the last corner, she tells herself to quit staring so damn much, seeing him slouching against the arm of an expensive leather couch in his swim trunks and with an amusingly pink towel draped over the back of his neck. Maka shoves her attraction far into the dark, putting the scarily strong pull of desire in an indefinite time-out until her rationality appears to be more sound.

Maka finds his face schooled into a mask of indifference, though the bond reveals his relief to have her within his sight. Soul rests a light hand at her back, barely felt through her towel (to her disappointment, which she beats down with a mental textbook), guiding her through open french doors and symmetrical gauze curtains. She finds reserves of self-control she hadn't known she had, resisting the urge to smack him in the chest with the back of a hand when he suggests having Kid draw her a map next time if she's so adept at getting lost.

She tells herself she's a good person that wishes to be less abusive, and that her restraint has nothing at all to do with being afraid to touch his skin and having her head explode from the blood pressure.

Maka tries to ignore the awkward pause when they first walk to the pool, noticing how all eyes are on them and how the world grinds down to a halt. It seems everyone has been briefed about the small explosion that had occurred between her and Soul in Stein's office earlier this morning. Wonderful, because she needs another reminder of her lapse in judgement.

Perhaps it's just as well that Black*Star is painfully unaware of the pause (or is very good at ignoring it), for he promptly shouts, "RICO!"

...Who?

"What," Soul barks in reply. The bond leaks off from her, shifting from protective watch-dog to riled beast in a single breath.

"Remember what I had in my pants?"

That can't be a safe conversation. Soul seems to agree, one-handedly pulling the towel off his neck and draping it over her face. As Maka irritatedly grabs it, she catches the sight of his muscles tensing and flexing as he hurls himself into the pool, cannonballing towards his friend's head in effort to get him to shut up.

An inside joke, perhaps? Generic Black*Star dialogue? Maka has long since given up trying to understand boy-talk. The splash and ensuing waves appear to break the ice, because the world seems to return to spinning normally- her classmates shooting her their respective greetings and smiles.

As she waves in return, Maka debates throwing Soul's nice, dry towel into the pool.

Soul pops up to the surface hissing and pitifully complaining of toe cramps and how chlorine stings the scrape on his arm. With a regretful sigh, she sets both of their towels in the seat of an empty wicker patio chair. Maka walks over to the edge of the pool, the afternoon sun beating down on her skin. The decorative bricks and stones of the outer rim of the pool are almost uncomfortably warm under her feet, having baked all day in the summer heat. The water feels wonderful in comparison as she eases herself in to the first of a handful of over-sized pool steps. She sits next to Death the Kid, who stares into a delicate goblet filled to the brim with something cold and pale yellow, with a slice of pineapple impaled on the rim of the glass.

He's slouched in thought. Through dizzying ripples, she catches hints of black trunks and white stripes, a stark contrast against his unusually pale skin. She knows that he's unable to get a sunburn due to his genetics, but she hasn't considered the consequences of being completely immune to the sun's rays until now. Maka's unsure if she should interrupt his concentration, not wanting to set of some kind of mental catastrophe like detonating a bomb.

Instead, she watches their friends divide up into a game of pool chicken as her body adjusts to the temperature of the water. Soul looks as wary as Tsubaki, who sits on his shoulders. Maka is amused by his stuttering, halting confusion over Soul Chain regarding where to put his hands- eventually settling for the girl's ankles. Tsubaki appears to be more worried about their opponents, because Patti and Black*Star have teamed up- the ninja atop the weapon's shoulders instead of the other way around- and they are a force to be reckoned with in any sport. Liz raises a hand, multiple bracelets and bangles jangling on her wrist. She signals them to start in a lazy voice, though the pleased look on her face betrays her entertainment.

Tsubaki doesn't stand a chance. She's at her meister's mercy, Black*Star changing tactics from pushing to tickling in attempt to destroy her balance. Patti is amazingly adept at kicking Soul's shins through dense water, all the while balancing a squirming, energetic Black*Star on her shoulders. The younger Thompson laughs giddily after every creative swear word her opponent spews. Maka watches Soul and Tsubaki sink to the depths in defeat.

Turning to Kid in a grim effort to not stare at her partner resurfacing with a heaving, wet chest, she asks him lightly, "What're you drinking?"

"Nothing, as of yet," the shinigami replies. Maka decides he's just extremely literal as opposed to being a smart-ass. He swirls the glass around, its frozen contents slushing together. With a curious sideways glance, he asks, "Have you tried this?"

Maka shakes her head. She's probably even less experienced with alcohol than he is. Kid grunts, returning to his study. "I do not understand purposely trying to poison myself. Look," he says, holding the drink out for her inspection, one of his skull-rings clinking on the glass. "You even have to put so many other ingredients into it to make it taste bearable."

She wonders if she should be more on edge having her personal space invaded by another guy, but it's Kid for crying out loud. From what she understands, he's already the romantic property of the Thompson sisters- plus Maka doesn't think he could flirt his way out of a paper bag, much less purposely hit on her. When she ignores the chlorine of the pool, she catches whiffs of pineapple and coconut and something else that isn't on her normal menu; it bites, stinging like bleach to her nostrils.

Some logical part of her is saying that only delinquents (that cut class and cheat on tests) drink underage, and it's probably in her best interests to stick with legal methods of entertainment, given her record. She agrees full-heartedly with herself, but Kid still looks so disgruntled about life. Maybe it's to get him to lighten up, or maybe it's because Soul really had licked her stupid, but in any case, Maka throws logic to the wind and plucks the drink from his hand to take a cold, frozen sip before the shinigami has time to argue about germs and diseases.

The drink itself tastes pretty good, actually. She thinks she might taste something unpleasant that vaguely reminds her of hairspray, and it feels strange to drink something mostly frozen but have her stomach feel slightly warmer, like she's swallowed a hidden fire. Otherwise, it's not unpleasant.

"That wasn't as bad as I'd expected," Maka remarks, stealing the spear of pineapple from the rim of the glass before handing the drink back to Kid. He gawks at her as if she's grown another head. Yep. Definitely not hitting on her. Definitely still has his own personal space issues.

The pineapple is perfectly ripe, and she immediately wants more to munch on. "Taste it," she chirps with a smile.

"It would be a waste of effort. I can't be poisoned."

"I disagree. That's a waste of effort," Maka giggles, jerking a thumb over to the rest of their friends, Tsubaki faintly squeaking while she falls off of Soul's shoulders a second time. Black*Star roars in victory as if Tsubaki wouldn't purposely lose even if he so much as coughed in her direction.

Kid's mouth only forms into a grim line.

"Try it. And then, if you don't like it, I'll drink it. That's not a waste, right?"

He doesn't look convinced.

"You can even make one without the alcohol and then we'd both have one! And they'd match."

She tries to put on her most angelic, beaming smile while he gives her an exasperated, I-know-what-you're-playing-at face, even though he's already fallen for her symmetrical suggestion. Kid takes a helpless glance at the contents of the glass in his hand, and then takes a dainty, well-bred sip, to which Maka cheers loudly.

He comes back away from the goblet, confusion etched on his face. Kid says in alarm,"Why does this taste like Phantasm Residue?" He looks to her, as if she knows what the heck he's talking about and has an answer for him. Just how different is a shinigami's life from a normal human being's? Maka doesn't even have time to ask before Black*Star- having overheard them with his ninja hearing- guffaws loudly, pointing at Kid in his mirth while Patti climbs on to his shoulders to face Tsubaki for the third round.

"'Phantasm residue?' Is that what they're callin' it, now?" He calls from the other end of the pool.

Maka is confused, to say the least. Calling what... what? Her head swivels between Death the Kid, who looks annoyed, and Black*Star, who looks perverted. Kid brings up his hand that isn't holding his piña colada, pointing a slender pinky finger to the fellow meister and pulling an imaginary trigger.

"Click," he says with a dignified sneer.

Naturally, it isn't as fast as a bullet, but Patti obligingly clamps her thighs around her target and punches Black*Star in the back of the head, cheerfully yelling, "BANG!"

Liz announces Soul and Tsubaki the winners of round three when the opposing team loses their balance and plummets.

Kid politely offers her the rest of his drink, stepping out of the pool and explaining that he'll try one without the alcohol after all. Maka is still pretty lost, so she grudgingly chalks up the whole exchange as more boy-talk. Phantasm residue, huh? She takes another sip of the drink while she watches Soul laugh so hard that he tips Tsubaki over, cackling over Black*Star's pain. Liz amends her announcement from a win to a draw.

 

 

 

Patti's swimsuit is flamboyant and provocative, playing well with her bombshell curves, but she laughs often and is so lighthearted that the amount of skin she shows doesn't seem offensive at all. Or maybe Maka's been overexposed to Blair's wardrobe and doesn't remember what indecency is anymore. Or maybe it's the 'phantasm residue' thinking for her.

Or maybe harlots just don't have standards.

She's doomed.

The weapon's energy seems limitless. She switches from pedaling her sister's float around the perimeter of the pool, to diving for sunken bracelets, to volleyball, to fluttering around Kid and annoying him just enough to keep him from sinking into deep and silent thought without missing a beat.

Liz's face is relaxed and at ease underneath her sun hat as she floats, sprawled on her inflatable recliner. It's strange to see such an expression on her, but it's not unflattering. The woman does get a little on edge when she thinks her sister has been underneath the water's surface too long. She also has a constant eye on her meister whenever he enters the deep end of the pool, ever prepared to keep him from drowning himself should he find something unbalanced and mentally go the deep end in tandem.

Soul has the tendency to gurgle his way down to the bottom of the pool when Black*Star pesters him too much about his sex life. He also manages to pop back to the surface in a huff, grappling the moment the ninja turns to Maka for information instead, and attempts to drown him before her inebriated tongue slips and spills everything. Soul consistently checks in on her, silently prodding the bond like clockwork. Yes, she's still here. No, she doesn't need anything.

She's content to sit here and watch him from a safe distance.

In a surprising (then again, maybe not) turn of events, Tsubaki is the one who is mixing drinks, and Maka can't decide if it's to limit how much of the poison Black*Star can consume, or if the woman's aim is to also get details out from her, offering her sweet, fruity drinks with paper umbrellas to get her mouth working more quickly than her brain. Maka is afraid to ask where any of their group has managed to accumulate so much booze while underage, though she imagines it has something to do with ninjas and the swimsuit Tsubaki wears- a black number that sports a long, low dip that shows off the elegant, amazon curve of her back.

Taking a break from blenders and shot measurements, Tsubaki steps into the pool next to Maka, taking a seat on the concrete step where Kid had once sat, setting a plate of pineapple rings behind them at the water's edge like a true, awesome, amazing, mind-reading friend.

This would be Sneaky Interrogation Attempt number ...three? Four? She can't remember. Maka nurses her latest frozen concoction, watching Black*Star convince Patti to help him overturn Liz, who is still on her float and trying to catch the very last of the sun's rays. Soul wisely hops out of the pool, sitting on the edge and out of the range of disaster while Kid observes the events in half-fear and half-interest.

"Release the Kraken!"

"So are you and Soul...okay? After this morning..."

Maka starts, already forgetting about Tsubaki and her tactics. Liz squeals off to her right, a large splash sending rocking waves that lap at Maka's arms. She reaches behind and grabs a pineapple ring, bringing it to her mouth and gnawing at its sweetness.

"Yeah, I think we're good. Maybe. Kinda," she says with a full mouth. She hears herself quietly rant about how useless her brain has become, and how she had scared Soul and pissed him off and is extra skittish around her and, "I'm dumb! Why'd you let me be so dumb?" Maka accuses her friend, who looks taken aback.

Maka sighs apologetically. She morosely takes another sip from her drink. "I'm turning into Papa. Pretty soon all I'll be able to do is drool like an idiot and dream about making out all day."

Tsubaki smothers her giggle with a hand just a second too late. Maka forlornly sucks at the pulp of another piece of fruit.

"That a bad thing?" Black*Star's voice startles her. Oh no, this round is a tag-team effort. Tsubaki's meister comes to sit on the other side of Maka, with a fresh fist mark on the side of his cheek courtesy of Liz. He steals one of her pineapple rings!

"Yes that's a bad thing," she says, trying not to slur. "And don't steal mah fruit!"

Black*Star shoves the whole ring into his mouth loudly. He leans backwards, resting his elbows behind him and on the edge of the pool. The posture reminds her of Soul and candle-lit bathrooms, and she mentally slaps herself when she feels her body tingle at the memory. Quit it!

"Well it sounds like my life in a nutshell. That and designing statues in my image. Tsubakiiii," he croons, abruptly changing the subject, "-can I have another beer?"

The weapon purses her lips, leaning back and around Maka to hold up... a series of fingers?

"Three. Five. Two. That's a thumb. Trick question!"

"You pass," Tsubaki sing-songs.

Black*Star pumps his fist happily while his evident waitress cheerfully climbs out of the pool to get another bottle of beer. Maka remarks that she's not sure what's just happened, and she's discovered that she can't count fingers anymore to her dismay.

"Genius-Albarn gets the failing grade! Sucha lightweight. So uhh- OW. Damn! Keep your fruit then!" He exclaims after she smacks his hand away from her plate of treasure. His voice then becomes a little hushed, which is odd coming from someone who normally speaks with the same amount of decibels as a jet engine. "Are you an' Soul... ya know? Well I mean we all know ya'll are ... ya know, but-"

"What? You're gonna have to use some real words or something," Maka interrupts in confusion, talking around the lip of her glass before taking another sip.

Black*Star raises an eyebrow at her, then looks over his shoulder. When he turns back, he has a hand covering the side of his mouth as he hisses, "Have you hooked up yet?"

To her blank stare, he covers his face with a palm, muttering, "Now I get what Tsubaki was talking about. Can't believe I gotta do this again- the both of you are hopeless." The ninja holds a hand in front of her face, the tips of thumb and forefinger touching and making a circle. Then, as he takes a finger of the other hand and inserts it into the circle, he emphasizes his words. "Hooked. Up."

"Oooooh," Maka exclaims suddenly, pointing at him and waving her hand, the cogs in her head coming together belatedly. She laughs. "No. We haven't," she says, pleased to finally understand boy-talk.

Crap. Did she just say that? Did he hear it?

Black*Star twists his head around to yell behind them both, "What the hell, Rico! Do her already!"

Yep.

Eyes. She's very aware of eyes all sliding to her and her partner. Maka realizes too late that the hand she uses to cover Black*Star's loud mouth is the one that is holding her drink, which smashes up against the ninja's face. She watches in horror as he thanks her, his hand holding the glass though she still grips it by the stem, and begins to down the remaining contents. This suddenly strikes her as a shade too intimate, despite just having basically blurted out the state of her lack of sexual experience.

She worriedly looks to 'Rico,' who is out of the pool and walking down a pathway to a secluded area of the massive yard for reasons unknown to her. He ever so slowly turns his head around with a scowl, eyes like red daggers, a faint blush peeking from between wet locks plastered to his face. Maka thinks he spies her hand caught underneath Black*Star's as the ninja chugs the rest of her drink, and maybe feels a hastily smothered, whip-crack of irritation along the bond. Soul hooks a thumb, disgruntled, into the waistband of his swimming trunks before turning to stalk further away from the pool.

"Hey, this taste's way better than beer," Black*Star remarks next to her.

She reaches out and calls for Soul through the bond, wanting him to stop walking away so she can have a chance to explain herself (though she doesn't know what she'll say), but he pointedly ignores her. Confused, she disentangles her hand from the glass that Black*Star still holds and stands up in a rush. "Waita second, So-whoa-"

It's her first time standing up after having consumed so much alcohol, and she's not prepared for how the world feels like pudding underneath her feet. Black*Star is ready to steady her, standing to put a hand at her back with a wooshing splash of his legs, and Tsubaki reaches out in attempt to grip her forearm, just returning with a cold bottle of beer already sweating with condensation.

Then her gut hits rock bottom. As expected, Soul is somehow already, predictably at her side, a familiar palm at her back that accidentally collides with Black*Star's. The gods laugh at her as the boys' collective effort to correct her balance undo the tie of her bikini top. Maka feels it loosen, and she clamps her arms to her sides, freezing before the cloth can escape her. Her panic screeches along the bond, and it takes her partner half a second to realize what he's helped untie.

"Careful, bookworm," he says lightly, nodding to Black*Star to indicate he has her. He's irritated at her, but he can't decide what for yet, settling for the abstract equivalent of colorful expletives along the bond as he deftly grapples the straps to her top with long fingers, covertly holding it together.

Maka nervously laughs. "Well that was weird. Don't step on the pineapple," she squeaks, praying to all that is good and holy that he doesn't have any pressing need to take revenge on her for straining his sanity on multiple fronts.

He looks at her quizzically, his agitation not even close to being derailed but humoring her anyway. "What pineapple?"

Maka gasps in horror when she peers down at her empty plate. Black*Star doesn't bother hiding the fact that he's chewing the last of her food. "YOU."

"Whut. I'm hungry! Soul, go get the freakin' pizza already!"

"I am. Was gonna go rinse off, but Tweedle Tipsy decided to..." Soul leaves the sentence open-ended and ending on an annoyed note. "We need to talk," he growls lowly between clenched teeth, maneuvering her in front of him with a hand still keeping her top on and another firmly digging her shoulder.

"Whoa hey now, when I said 'do her already,' I didn't mean right this second," Black*Star chortles. To Soul's glare that she can easily feel shot over her shoulder, the ninja holds up both his hands adding with a devious grin, "Just sayin'."

"Maka, are you okay?" Tsubaki asks, still worried about her and possibly how she slightly sways while standing still, even with Soul's hand on her shoulder. Maka has more pressing matters, however, such as an irate partner and the threat of flashing half the members of Spartoi.

"N-n-no I'm good! I'll be right back," she says a touch too cheerily.

"Excuse us," Soul drawls, keeping behind her and turning them around to drive her down the pathway that he had originally been on before she had stood up to call after him.

The rough stones of the walkway irritate her pruny feet. As they walk through the path, weaving between symmetrically trimmed ornamental bushes and decorative statues, the bond becomes more tense and agitated. Soul is heedless of her complaints and questions, the sounds of the people at the pool fading away as they come closer to some kind of roofless building that she can't identify. She's dizzy, and it's darker here, away from the pool and the fading sun, and she wants to stop being pushed like he has a gun at her back.

Soul leads her inside the door-less entryway to the building. It smells wet here, like damp concrete. A showering room? He had mentioned rinsing off earlier, now that she thinks about it. He stops after they make their way around a curving hallway, out of sight (other than from above) of anyone who may be outside. He's grumbling things about her tits and how she's so god-damned determined to show her body to the entire god-damned world, god-damn it. He re-ties her bikini top after releasing the hold he has on her shoulder, blood rushing back to the area with a dull pulse.

"Knew you were a chatterbox- don't know why I didn't think booze'd make it worse."

Soul directs her to a stone ledge that juts out from a wall at a convenient bench level. It sits adjacent to another wall that has shower heads and levers sprouting from it. Light from an unseen source reflects off of the stonework and colors the room in dim grays and earthy browns.

Maka sits gratefully, just happy that the world is more solid when she's not standing and that her top isn't about to fall off. Soul stalks off away from her, flipping levers and drowning himself in a heavy cascade. She watches water pelt his head and run down his body, and even though he still wears his shorts the visual is stirring enough for her cheeks to flush. She leans her head against the wall, draping her arm over her eyes. It seems to help her focus, somewhat. Maka ends up peeking only after a few seconds.

"Why is everyone so interested if we've... done it or not?"

He can't understand her at first, leaning his head out of the spray and listening again as she repeats herself. He grimaces and returns to the downpour, scrubbing angrily at his hair with a hand. "Fuck if I know," he says, voice raised to hear over the water splashing on his head and chest. Maka catches herself still leering underneath her arm, spying a scar that stretches from toned shoulder to lean hip.

Sex, sex sex. Tsubaki asks her about it. Black*Star pesters both of them about it. Apparently everyone else is wondering about it and likely making bets. Her father is terrifiedabout it. How can she not think about 'doing it' with him all the time?

If she ignores all the chatter in her head about common sense and logic and decency and morality and all that other upper-brain crap, as she stares at him rinsing chlorine off his body in a surly temper, all she wants is to press up against him wetly and figure out what the hell everyone is talking about. He's distracting. He's on the cusp of maturity, very nearly a man, and she wants him all to herself.

Does that make her bad? Greedy? A harlot? She doesn't know what's right anymore. She does not like fighting with herself! But she does not want to be like her father, either. But she loves him! That makes things a little better, doesn't it? Does that fact justify wanting to get it over with already?

"Why haven't we done it?" She blurts out as he rinses off his body. Maka gives up trying to cover her eyes. She can't stop from staring at him, even if he's giving her the same look Kid had given her earlier- like she's grown another head.

"Haaah?"  
"You heard me."

Soul is flabbergasted, his voice more than a little strained with disbelief when he asks, "Are you serious? How much have you had to drink?"

Maka ignores his attempt at side-tracking her. Plus she's lost count of how many colorful paper umbrellas Tsubaki had gifted her with. "Do you not want to?"

Soul splutters in reply, the bond going haywire at her questioning. "Wha..? You- AHG." He puts a hand over his steadily heating face in equal parts embarrassment and frustration. He looks at her in between splayed, wet fingers, water dripping off his defensive frame to splash at his feet. "Of course I do," he grits out.

"Then why haven't we?"

For reasons she doesn't immediately understand, he becomes infuriated with her. He nearly claws at his face with his hand before bringing it down to his side in a fist. Soul Chain is lightning-quick in his anger, careening through her senses with the stinging hum of billions of bees. "I don't fucking know," Soul says scathingly, "-maybe it's because we've only been doing this thing for less than a week. Maybe it's kind of important or something. Am I wrong? Does everyone else in the world not fucking care about that anymore?"

Perhaps those are rhetorical questions, but her frustration leaks out from the heavy pressure on her heart. His anger stirs her anger, and she curses inelegantly, her feet stomping jarringly on the concrete floor. "I don't know, god damn it!"

The swirling, angry currents of the bond comes to a sudden pause, surprised with her language.

Maka's fists clench painfully as she howls at him, "I love you, and I don't what I'm supposed to do! How should I know, when my heart is going a million miles an hour! I can't look at you without thinking about it! I don't wanna screw things up by being stupid! I didn't study for this!"

The bond listlessly floats after her tirade as he tries tries to not gape at her. Soul reaches behind him, a hand running along a pattern of stone to swing each lever to the off position.

Maka glares angrily at the floor. She hears Soul walk to her seat on the bench, crouching down beneath her, eyes downcast. Cooling water drips from his hair at her feet. The bond comes alive, partially apologetic, partially calling attention to the chattering of his many feelings and reasons why they haven't, and still can't have sex. Condoms seem to be a central theme, but he also fears of hurting her, and it's not all about the black blood, either. He really doesn't want it to be an accidental thing or a sudden incident on their living room couch.

Damn it. He's too good to her. Mister Nice Guy. Can he hear her? She's sorry, really. She doesn't know what to do with herself, and she thinks she might be having a sexual identity crisis. Is he okay with that? She only wants to be with him in every way, shape, and form. She's greedy and insatiable and turning into Papa.

As if in reply to her thoughts, Soul reaches up with a hand, gently plucking at her fist. He uncurls her fingers, bringing them to his face and pressing his mouth against her knuckles like a pledge, fully accepting her and whatever strange complexes she may harbor.

Maka slides her hand from his grasp, lightly caressing the side of his face. He makes the tiniest of movements to lean into her touch, as if to say he is greedy as well, the bond swirling around her attentions.

"I think I'm a harlot," she pitifully admits with quiet horror. Her partner squints his eyes shut in attempt to process her words before looking up at her skeptically, his face still cradled in her palm. After a small silence, Soul scoffs despite himself.

"Maka, you idiot. You're not a ...you can't be a virgin-harlot," he says with a snort.

"But... Don't laugh! I'm being serious!" This is a big deal for her!

"It's clear you didn't study at all."  
"I! You! Go die!"  
"Glad m'sober. I'd hate to forget this."

He's what?

"You're what?"

He bites the inside of his cheek before speaking. He relays the idea of him needing to drive them home tonight, but aloud he tries to say with a straight face, "Mm. How else would I resist you and your virgin-harlot ways?"

She gives him a half-hearted smack on the cheek, to which he remains unfazed. To Soul's quiet snickering that he tries to hide with the back of his hand, she says with displeasure, "Fuck off," which only makes him laugh harder, silently shaking in amusement and admiring her intoxicated sailor's mouth. Throwing previous vows to be less abusive out the window, she kicks him in the shin.

"Gah!" he yelps, standing up in a rush, still half-laughing.

"Resist this!"

Somehow, it makes absolute sense to grab him by his swim trunks and then his hair to pull him forward and smash her lips angrily on his. Soul is confused at first, but he catches on quickly after he tumbles into her, hands slapping loudly on the wall behind her and landing hard on the stone bench with his knees.

"Maka, wait," he says in between her furious kisses, not wanting to hurt her as he tries to squirm out of her arms that have snaked around his soaking midsection.

"No," she haughtily replies.

"First off- that kick: Totally unnecessary," he mumbles into her mouth. "Second- ...mmm... you're drunk as a skunk-"

"Am not," she argues, this time going for his neck, nosing his wet hair out of the way to lick the moisture from his jawline. See if he can deal with this for once! Her 'virgin-harlot ways' are not meant to be taken lightly, damn it.

"Well you aren't sober. You taste like rum," he retorts matter-of-factly, making an effort to put a distance between their bodies. Maka sucks a little harder underneath his ear in reply. She's rewarded with a delightful, jerking shudder.

"Third," he adds eventually, his voice a few steps more hoarse than before, "-this isn't exactly secluded. There's not even a do-OOR?"

She's pleased at the distracted, breathy gasp he makes when she presses a thigh against his tell-tale excitement. She's feisty, and he likes that, hissing a little when she finds his mouth again and laps at the inside of his bottom lip. With a growl, he catches her rogue hand that she doesn't remember ordering to slither down between them, restraining her wrist against the stones behind her, forcing her to lean back against the wall.

His chest is heaving as he kneels over her, looking bewildered and aroused, stray droplets of water dripping to land coldly on her heated skin. Soul's scar is in her direct line of sight, and she can't help but reach for it with her other hand, her palm tracing it downwards, watching him involuntarily twitch under her touch. He places his unoccupied hand over hers just as her fingers curl around the waistband of his shorts. Her weapon leans away a bit, using the stalemate to take a moment to clear his head. Maka can't tell if he's glaring at her or drinking her with his eyes, the bond electrically charged and indecisive.

So when Black*Star's distant demands to 'go and get dinner already, jackass' from outside the shower house's walls reach their ears, it's to her greatest surprise when Soul flips his hair angrily out of his eyes, flinging water in an irritated arc as he looks over his shoulder and roars with a flustered, "I'M FUCKIN' BUSY."

Maka hears the other meister faintly swearing, advising them to get a room as he stomps off away from the building. Maka squeaks when Soul suddenly stands, bringing her with him. He then curiously spins her away from him, taking both of her hands in one of his, making another cage of knuckles against the wall as he proceeds to bend her over the stone bench like it's the most natural thing in the world.

It's almost frightening how instinctual it is to curve her back, arching her hips to him like cat even as she stutters questions and complaints about being man-handled. When he slides his free hand down her spine, fingers running over the ties of her swimsuit, he only breathes, "Very, very glad I'm sober."

He leans forward, his cheek resting on her shoulder, wet hair tickling and chilling her skin as he nibbles and licks. The heat from his tongue is easy to immediately identify, Soul's breath puffing humidly against her. His knees nudge her legs a little wider apart. Reaching his hand around brings his body closer, his chest sliding against her with his erection brushing her thighs. His palm travels to her stomach and lower.

Soul's fingers toy with still-damp spandex. Maka can't stop herself from pressing back and against him wantonly, the pressure of his body feeding urges that she had been vainly fighting all afternoon. Her knees grow steadily weaker as Soul slips his hand underneath the stretchy swimsuit material between her legs, every contact of the pads of his fingers curiously making her toes go instantly numb.

"Uncool, Maka," He says, gravelly tones almost unheard over the persistent panting and mewing that rains from her mouth. "Don't wanna take advantage, but if you start it..."

Soul doesn't finish. The bond clearly states his inability to resist, and the moan he draws out from her with the light pressure he applies with dexterous fingers speaks for itself. His voice reverberates in his chest, quaking through her shoulders as he murmurs against her neck just how much hell it had been seeing her in practically nothing- watching her completely fail at trying to not leer at him. Does she know that he had illogically wanted to punch both Shinigami's son and his best friend in the face for being so close to her?

Maka's legs are going limp under his attentive ministrations. He rubs her slowly and intensely, making her knees quiver and shake weakly, filled with the same pudding the rest of the world seems to be made of. Her thighs are wedged between the bench and his own legs in effort to not collapse. She moans loudly, and he shushes her through the bond, squeezing her hands a moment before letting them go. He takes his arm and supports her with it, one of his feet resting on the bench for balance, splaying his fingers across her breasts to smash her against his body.

She tries to shut up, whimpers sneaking out of her and immediately reflecting off the wall and into her burning ears. He slips a finger into her, delving inside and stroking intimately. Her hands are beginning to slide down the wall when he adds a second finger, her body pitching forward with a wet gasp. She doesn't think she can stand anymore- her bones are missing and the room is spinning.

He understands, removing his soaking, torturous fingers and guiding her to kneel on the bench. It's uncomfortable, but she can't dwell on it long because he's hooking his thumbs into the sides of her bikini bottoms, making her whimper in anticipation. They're wet, and from more than one source, and her hands grip aimlessly at his wrists as he drags the swimsuit partway down her thighs- the tight material forcing her knees to come closer together. Sharp pin-pricks of teeth are felt on her earlobe as Soul tells her in a hushed breath to lean back on him.

Maka doesn't know what to expect, resting her weight on his slick chest, his ragged breaths somewhat encouraging to her ego. They both groan when he bucks his hips against her bared cheeks, which they find curious and satisfying for a time. Then Soul says something that she doesn't immediately comprehend, her mind fuzzy and blurred in arousal and inebriation.

"Stop me if you don't like it."

She makes a wordless, useless noise with a question mark tacked on the end of it a split second before she feels something hot and velvet resting along her thighs. Sluggishly becoming worried and nervous, she questions him, pitifully calling out his name. The bond is a jumble of nervous excitement from the both of them, but he reassures her with waves of calm that he has no intention of taking her virginity.

"Though this is probably a bad idea," he adds aloud, deep voice wavering. Soul's hand wraps around her again, and she feels him more-or-less coat his fingers with her... her...self. Maka is lost, shivering in his hold, wondering just what is a bad idea? But then, with his slicked hand, he guides himself between her shuddering, quivering thighs, sucking in air from between his teeth and letting it out with a strained sigh.

She feels him twitching against her folds, so close to the goal but gallantly refusing to enter. Soul's entire body from knees to shoulders is pressed up against her, muscles clenching in self-restraint, Soul Chain awash in both elated and tortured pleasure.

Yeah, she can see how this could be a bad idea. His dick is right there, the heat of him dangerously pulsing less than an inch away from where it had been designed to belong.

Soul's other hand trembles as he crosses his arm over her chest, gripping her shoulder and twisting in the strap of her bikini top. His other hesitantly spreads her lower lips wide and he slides himself partially out of her thighs and then experimentally back in, slick, searing silk brushing against her open folds. Maka reaches back to desperately clutch his hip with a surprised gasp.

"Want me to stop?"

She vehemently expresses her extreme need for him to do that again over the bond. Soul swallows loudly at her ear, catching the gist of it, trying to keep his breath steady.

"Stay still for me?" He asks thinly. She makes a tiny, jerking nod in reply, trembling with feverish apprehension. He warns her again to stop him whenever she feels, and then slowly thrusts between her thighs once more. The sensation makes her jaw go slack, and she's incessantly curious about what it would be like to have him inside with such a burning, hard heat. Pleasure thickly spreads from her core to the rest of her body, slowly building and tingling clear to her fingers.

The feeling is enjoyable, especially when he starts to become more bold with his thrusts- the head of his erection occasionally rubbing against her clit with a feverish press of his hips. Even more arousing is Soul, himself, whose heavy pants and guttural moans wash over her neck and collarbone, the tendons in his arms absently flexing as he strains to keep his composure. He occasionally curses, his pleasure drowning her through the bond, his amazement plain regarding how ridiculously good her skin feels. He nearly blows a gasket when she discovers that clenching her thighs closer together makes him grit his teeth and desperately groan.

In retaliation, he takes the hand on her shoulder and moves it to her clit, rubbing the bundle of nerves with precision. Unprepared, she gasps loudly, and resorts to biting the knuckles of her right hand to keep from doing it again. It's terribly difficult to not squirm in his grasp, the instinct to tilt her hips just-so to allow him entrance almost too powerful. Friction and pressure and heat and shocking fingertips leave her blind. Maka leans heavily on his ever-moving body as he picks up the tempo the closer he gets to orgasm. She can feel it building in him, through his muscles and the pitch of his voice and how tightly the sizzling, crazed smoke of the bond wraps around them both, pulsing loudly in time to their hearts.

Soul's feelings amplify in her, building like a bonfire, overtaking her and then abruptly searing and consuming every atom she possesses until all is burned clean. She throws her head back, a long, wordless mewl muffled by her fist trampling out of her mouth while her partner gratefully races towards his own release. Maka is coming back down from the stars while he borders on chaos, thrusting in between her legs with frustrated urgency.

He's so close! The bond reveals his tortured agony, and she thinks it before she can really have time to be embarrassed about it:

"Come for me, my Soul."

He struggles, moaning between the syllables of her name before he climaxes, hurriedly throwing himself back from her hips and pressing his furrowed, damp brow deeply into the crook of her neck.

Maka is dimly aware of hot wetness hitting her calves and a trio of girls screaming in terror in the far distance. Soul shudders, still recovering from his orgasm and leaning so heavily on her that she needs to support them both with her hands on the wall once more.

"What was that," she asks, still panting, her insides absently twitching in aftermath. Are those voices getting closer?

"Brilliant," he breathes contentedly.

Though a valid answer (which makes her smile like an idiot), it isn't exactly the one she's looking for.


	23. Lifeboats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit content.

**Soul**

**  
**

 

He had thought a lot about not wanting their first time to be a rushed, unplanned sort of thing, but mind and body are not always on the same page. That had been  _close._  Fighting the urge to shove inside had nearly unhinged him, and he's quietly astonished that he'd won. Soul sighs shakily, draping himself over Maka's back. She supports him with only minor complaint. Ohh- skin. Maka's skin. Maka's skin that's damp with sweat and remnants of the shower. It's reminiscent of the slickness of other, maddening areas.

"What was that?"

Is she serious? He's still trying to take inventory on his numb and tingling limbs, recovering from simultaneously trying to contain himself and explode, and she's  _already_  trying to over-analyze shit; She hasn't even caught her breath yet.

 _"Brilliant,"_  he says, but it doesn't come out as exasperated as he feels, and it probably has something to do with feeling like he's just crash-landed on the moon, propelled by only his  _dick._  She might be getting a muddy visual of his immediate thoughts. Her stifled, perverted giggle is kind of cute.

"I  _meant_  the voices- I think they're comin' this way. That might be bad," but she doesn't sound worried at all, which makes him a little slow on the uptake of the situation.

 _Oh. Oh shit._ Soul frantically peels himself from Maka. He had falsely assumed he was allowed a temporary, five-minute waiver from rational thought after just having blissfully  _died,_ but there's no door, it's pretty breezy between both their legs, Maka is slurring that Liz, Patti, and Tsubaki are on her radar, and there's still-warm evidence dripping down the curve of her calf...

That's  _really_  distracting. Soul realizes that he had also falsely assumed his arousal fed, his cock making the faintest of twitches at the sight of her leaning forward on knees with her swayed back and tousled hair. He drags her to the shower, one hand clamped on her wrist and the other holding his untied trunks up, their feet splashing loudly on wet concrete. She complains about how she can't walk when everything is pudding, but he thinks that her stumbling is more a result of alcohol than whatever the hell  _she's_ talking about. That and her swimsuit is hanging around her knees, binding them together like a rubber band.

Really, really distracting.

He hurriedly flings on the water, soaking them both. She complains that it's freezing, but she's going to have to get over it, because it's necessary for the blood to return to his neglected brain. He fumbles with his shorts, trying to not implode from Maka and her drunken antics. She's facing away from him, bare-assed and inner thighs still flushed from previous activities, looking back and down to her outstretched leg to innocently watch _his jizz_  run off her skin and into a floor drain.

Soul can faintly hear Liz's ranting voice steadily gaining volume. "Maka," he urges, "-stop being a nerd for five seconds and pull up your damn...  _fuck it_ _ **,**_   **I'll**  do it." Soul stands behind her, hastily shoving his thumbs into the sides of her swimsuit and dragging them up to her thighs, the water coursing down her squirming, goosebump-ridden body entirely too attention-grabbing.

"EEE! What're you...  _that tickles!"_

The planets align poorly, but he concedes that things could be a lot worse. Just as he finishes pulling tight, stretchy spandex up to her hips, three girls walk around the corner and into the shower room. His thumbs are still caught in his partner's swimsuit and, in his rush to appear innocent, he jerks his hands away, accidentally snapping the material loudly against her skin. He may as well have fired a gun. It would have echoed just as loudly.

Maka squeaks and then makes that perverted giggle  _again._ Soul attempts to keep his cool, his face neutral as he spies the newcomers gawking at them standing rather intimately close together in a downpour. From the corner of his eye he glances down at the floor drain in paranoia, but there are no longer any traces of creamy white streaking the water.

Safe. Sort of.

"Are we interrupting something?" Liz glares bullets anywhere she happens to glance, which is mostly around the vicinity of his  _face_ for some reason. He lives with two chicks (okay, a chick and a cat)- he knows what a death glare meant only for beings with testicles looks like. He doesn't dignify her with a response, mostly out of being distracted by the girls' appearance. Soul reaches behind him to turn off the shower's spray to see them more clearly.

"Wowwww... who sneezed on you?"

Maka has always been rather blunt, but she's downright tactless while intoxicated. Soul tries very hard not to laugh.

They're  **green.**  Tsubaki has a dark lime streak going down the whole of the left side of her body, Patti has splashes of neon all across her torso and arms, and Liz is...not happy, to say the least. Whatever it is that paints them in saturated, verdant tints is a gelatinous slime, and the majority of it appears to have made it to the taller demon gun.

Liz aggressively tosses tangled, goopy hair over her shoulder, and the mass land on her back with a wet slap that accurately translates her vexation. " _Return of the Kraken_ ," she replies, thoroughly displeased. When Soul sees Tsubaki embarrassedly cover her face with a hand, he assumes Black*Star is involved somehow. Patti snorts, squelching slime between her fingers. "If you're done with the shower," Liz drawls, leaving ample space between words just in case he fails to comprehend the snarl on her face or the venomous tone of voice.

Maka suddenly has her hands at his back, shoving him towards the door. "Out! Get out! No boys allowed!"

Oh. Fair enough. They probably don't want a dude around as they clean off...  _whatever the hell_  is all over them, and it's a good excuse as any to escape and not be confronted with prying questions. He's sure he can find out what had happened to them from a certain ninja as well. Maka's dripping palms are slick on his damp back, and they slide across his shoulder blades as she pushes him around the corner and out the shower house, both of them trying to avoid slimy footprints. One of her hands slides a little too slowly and  _not-accidentally_. Bemused, Soul glances at her over his shoulder at the sudden onset of curious attraction that flits from her through the link. She sloppily tries to hide it- booze appears to make her emotions a lot harder to wrangle. When he silently questions her blush, waves of bashful denial lap at him, which only makes him gloat more at having caught her fondling him. Maka gives him one last shove for good measure down the pathway that leads to the pool before turning around and teetering into the shower house once more.

She must have heard him chuckling, because her retaliation is to think something so clearly that they may as well have been resonating. Like forcefully shoving a funnel of her thoughts directly into his brain, with very teasing, very suggestive undertones, she pours in a line he may have heard five minutes ago:

_Come for me, my Soul._

He nearly busts his head on a statue when he slips on a trail of goop. It takes him longer than he wants to admit to gather his wits, alone and surrounded by trees and bird baths. Limbs tingling, he wipes his foot on well-kept grass, forcing himself to march back to the pool while the girls' chatter fades away behind him. Unlike their voices, Maka's amusement is long-reaching. He can practically feel her drunkenly smiling.

Slightly distracted, Soul finds Black*Star more by accident than anything. The meister stands underneath a covered patio, casually sipping from a beer as he leans against a heavy support beam. He gives Soul a sidelong glance before moving his gaze to the pool with a scoff.

"Nice hickey, Cassanova."

...Little  _minx._  That probably explains Liz's sharp stare. Soul self-consciously rubs the side of his neck. He doesn't have an excuse to offer. His eyes inadvertently travel to whatever Black*Star is staring at, eager for a distraction from thoughts of his meister's mouth on his skin, but all he sees is an empty- if not slightly more green and slimy- swimming pool.

The air smells different. It's slightly unpleasant and familiar, but he can't put a finger on it.

"So uhh, what happened to... _ **the fuck is that?"**_ Something large and very alive breaks the surface tension of the pool, sporting mottled, glowing green skin. Soul catches a glimpse of  _more than two_  eyeballs. He raises his arm defensively in front of him, phasing comforting, razor-edged steel from elbow to wrist.

_"Tell me that's not Kid."_

"You don't recognize it?" Black*Star looks skeptically at him and his apparent overreaction. Recognize  _what?_  As far as he knows, Soul hasn't been introduced to any phosphorescent, sentient, cephalopod  _kidneys_  recently.

"Stein's gonna be so pissed at me."  
"Waitawaitawaita minute. Is that-"  
"Yup."  
"-the thing that came from that little-"  
"Yup."  
"-jar? ...Did you  _know_  it was gonna-"

"Dude, I thought it was DEAD. How's I supposed to know that it'd grow ten times its size and start swimming the fuck around?" Black*Star finishes the last of his beer, disparagingly chucking the empty glass bottle at the pool.

It's in sickening fascination that Soul watches the massive, glowing creature leap upwards, opening a wide beak that hadn't been there a moment ago, slimy, glistening tendrils of neon green saliva stretching and breaking inside the gaping maw that hungrily snaps around the beer bottle like popcorn. It splashes back down, displacing enough water to lap over the swimming pool's rim and to make evident that it's not so much water it swims in anymore as it is runny, strangely-smelling Jell-o.

That explains the girls and the goop.

The ninja bends down with a small grunt and takes a fresh bottle of beer from an ice bucket that sits at his feet, casually popping the top off with Soul's blade like a fucking kitchen utensil. Soul manages to mostly ignore his alarm and indignantly shift the scythe back into his skin.

Formaldehyde.  _That's_  what that smell is. The cephalo-kidney that Black*Star had stolen from Professor Stein's lab had been released in Soul's absence, and had a freakish reaction with the pool water or something. He's pretty sure anything in formaldehyde is supposed to  _stay_  dead, but with Doctor Stitches involved, Soul probably shouldn't assume anything anymore. The beast blinks owlishly at him. He feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"Actually, it's more like thirty-five," Soul says in a thin voice.

"Thirty-five?"  
"Times its size."

The ninja sighs irritatedly. "Shut the fuck up and help me figure out what to  _do_  with it."

It takes a lot of control to keep from sounding worried. "Has Kid seen this?"

Black*Star picks up the freshly bent bottle cap with his toes, lifting it up to grab it with his fingers and flick it into the pool like a freakin'  _palette cleanser_  for the monster. Another gigantic splash turns the pool into a chaotic mass of gelatinous waves. "Nope. He went to go pick up the pizza 'cause you were  _busy."_ The meister takes a fresh sip. "How'd that go by the way? Get your  _business_  taken care of?" Black*Star's devious smile is extra potent after countless beers- the only indication he's consumed alcohol at all.

Spying Soul's flustered face, the ninja takes his silence as a resounding 'no' even though it's not exactly true. Black*Star rants about how he's a generous, heavenly being and gave Soul at least twenty minutes like a true bro. "And you come back here empty-handed? I may be a god, but I can't do  _everything_  for you."

Soul grinds his teeth together, wondering if it's poor sportsmanship to punch a drunk guy in the face. He's a private person, damn it, and he doesn't want to explain the mechanics of pretty much using Maka's (delightful) thighs to

 _rub one out like a pathetic virgin._  He'd never hear the end of it. Black*Star would probably tie him to a chair and make him watch an instructional video about how to stick a dick in a hole.

...At least he had made her come. Soul covers his face with a hand and feels how much warmer it is at the thought of her voice and the sound of skin on skin. "I don't ask what you and your weapon do when you take 'extended lunch breaks,'" he mumbles.

Black*Star's eyes get a far-away look, and his mouth quirks upwards in a distinctly pleased curve. "Yeeeeah. Spartoi uniforms kick ass. Erm, point taken. Plus I'll find out eventually. Anyway- long story short, Kid prolly got sidetracked by uneven pepperoni or shit,  _I_  got bored and went ahead with Project Pool Exodus, and then  **that**  happened-" Black*Star tilts his beer bottle to indicate the blob eying them from the pool, looking hopeful for more scraps.

A multi-octave, supernatural and extremely pissed voice shakes everything in the immediate area, rattling Soul's ribcage. The squid-monster hurriedly ducks beneath the water's surface in terror.

_**"WHAT IN MY FATHER'S NAME IS IN MY POOL."** _

 

* * *

 

 

This is a serious problem. Soul despises mushrooms. They taste like dirt and ass. Assdirt. But Maka loves them and trades her pepperonis to Patti in exchange for the fungus, and now he's craving them. Soul can't stop himself from taking a bite of the pizza she offers him. It's delicious and he hates it. He steals it from her and finishes the whole slice, and he doesn't want to find out if it's because of the link or because it simply came from her hands- both options rather detrimental to his Man Card.

The group sits like a bored audience around the pool's new mascot, eating a very late dinner. Even this late, cicadas still sing proudly into the night. The area is alight with tiki lamps and the scent of the torch oil occasionally wafts into Soul's nose, making him sneeze. He despises citronella too. The mosquitoes still find him, regardless.

Liz looks about as distraught as Death the Kid with her feet pulled up into the seat of a wicker chair. She wants the beast gone, far away, and very dead, and implores her meister to get rid of it. Kid agrees with her in every possible way, but he can't bring himself to end the creature's life because it is symmetrical even in its disturbing shape.

Patti and Maka already find the thing  _cute_  and both vehemently express their dislike of killing it. Tsubaki doesn't say anything on the subject of visual aesthetics, but she does feed 'Mister Kraken' the pizza crusts that her partner doesn't eat. When she runs out of crusts, Maka breaks off pieces from some garlic bread and delightedly tosses them into the pool for the monster.

Soul sits cross-legged with his meister leaning lazily against his side, sitting on a portion of the towel they share. The link is a comfortable, satisfied hum that isn't even interrupted by the occasional slaps he gives to his skin whenever he finds another damned blood-sucking bug from hell.

It seems Maka is over her guilt-trip about indirectly putting the both of them in danger by beinghorny or whatever. Good. Guilt trips are  _his_  job anyway. He doesn't like watching her beat herself up over shit. Maka has the tendency to over-think things when he's not watching carefully and ends up doing  _stupid crap_  like worrying about ruining their relationship because she thinks she's turning into her ass-chasing father.

...If making her come is all that's needed to return Maka to her normal, somewhat abusive, and more confident self, then he'll gladly oblige. Anytime. Apparently any _where_  as well.

"Alright, alright," Black*Star says after an impressive belch in reply to Liz's aggravated pestering. His knees crack as he crouches to plop down next to his weapon after grabbing another slice of pizza. "I'll go talk to Stein in the morning, sheesh!"

Oh damn. Soul needs to go back to the ballroom tomorrow and finish prepping it for the formal, seeing as he left early today. Lame. Just the thought of seeing Maka's father first thing in the morning makes him cringe. He should head home so he can sleep off this freakin' weird-assed day and mentally prepare for the onslaught that is being in the same room as Spirit Albarn.

Eating has mostly sobered her up, and Maka could probably ride safely on his bike for the short ride home, but he doesn't want to prod her into leaving. She looks happy to sit next to him and listen to their friends chat about dress shopping and punch spiking. He likes that she doesn't make any movement to deny him when he snakes an arm around her in front of witnesses. It's a silent statement, and their friends nonchalantly take it in stride by thoughtfully  _not_  making a huge deal about 'finally getting together.' He's pleased when she makes a mirror of the same gesture over the link, like a tickling embrace from her soul.

But he sneezes again, his lungs and chest complaining from the exertion, and he lets his arm go slack around her and collapses to his back with a dull thud. Maka looks down at him worriedly. Toying with a piece of bread between her fingers, she abruptly decides something, brushing another mosquito from him. She stands, holding out a hand to help him up with a small smile. Maka thanks the others for the good time with a big grin that reaches her eyes, announcing their departure and waving goodbye to Mister Kraken.

She knows him so well.

 

* * *

 

Maka catches him staring at her through the bathroom mirror- slightly hypnotized in the middle of brushing his teeth- when she starts to unthinkingly change out of her clothes behind him to step into the shower she's just turned on. She goes from comfortable to aggressive faster than he can count, and he finds himself outside the bathroom, facing a door he's somewhat familiar with.

"The hell, s'not like I haven't seen you strip before," he garbles through the locked door, scrubbing his teeth agitatedly. It hadn't been even a full week ago. He'd washed her hair that time too, in a lion-footed bathtub with weird European-smelling shampoo. "And who takes a shower this late?"

" **I do,**  and it's different when you're foaming at the mouth!"

"It's the friggen' toothpaste," he defends, though he'll admit he couldn't have pried his eyes away if he'd wanted to.

He hears the rungs of the shower curtain loudly scrape on the rod as she tugs another layer of protection between him and her unpredictable prudishness. Chicks make absolutely no sense. He's tempted to remind her that a only few hours ago she was bare-assed in a semi-public area, but Soul shuffles to the kitchen sink to spit instead. He trudges down the hallway, eager to change and collapse into bed. After tossing his toothbrush blindly on his desk with a clatter, he flips the light switch to his room and jumps out of his skin.

"Great balls of SACK," he exclaims. He feels Maka's curiosity seeping to him from the shower at his sudden jolt of surprise. Blair sits on his bed, human legs crossed one over the other. Her triangular ears are tuned in to him and every sound he makes, shoulders set in an accusatory tilt that means business.

"Okaeri. Care to explain this?" The witch-cat slowly raises an arm, resting her elbow on a knee with a long, feminine finger outstretched. A pair of underwear hang off a lacquered nail. She's still dressed for work- makeup a little heavier, cleavage a tad more pronounced, and hair more purposely tousled. It's unsettling to see someone who is more or less an occupational succubus sitting on his bedsheets with her full attention on him. He likes her better when she's the size of a kick-able football.

Soul's face scrunches in extreme confusion. "Why would I have

 _anything_  to do with your-"

Blair takes her other hand and stretches the garment, holding it out on display for him. They're small, and vaguely familiar. The teddy bears give it away. Now that he thinks about it, he doubts the cat owns anything made out of mere cotton.

Soul checks behind him to make sure Maka's still in the shower. She's still curious, but he gives her a light mental shove away, telling his meister to not worry about it. He shuts his bedroom door with a foreboding click.

"S'not what it looks like." He leans against the door, hoping to glean stability for a conversation he doubts he'll be able to sidestep this time.

A shapely eyebrow arches. "Nice hickey."

Yeah, and he goes by Cassanova, too. This is probably punishment for planting so many on Maka, but god damn, he's only had one for a few hours and he's already been spotted three times now.

"Okay, it's a little of what it looks like," Soul admits, eyes rolling in chagrin.

"You better have used protection," Blair casually threatens, her dangling foot idly rolling at the ankle.

 _Do not splutter do not splutter do not splutter,_  "Pardon? Not like it's any of your business, but we didn't  _have_ -"

Blair cuts off his hissing with her own. She's a lot better at it than he is. "That's no excuse," she scolds. "You could end up with a buncha little scythe-boys when  _you're_  still a scythe-boy!"

" _ **Cat**_ ," he says between clenched teeth, more than a little irritated at the stab at his maturity, "We didn't have  **sex,** dammit." Soul releases a deep, shuddering breath. If he thinks of his hair and how it's already silvered, he doesn't need to worry about how _stressed the fuck out_  he is having everyone and their house pet know about his sex life. He leans his head back on the door, screwing his eyes tightly shut, tiredly spelling it out for their roommate. "Fooled around, that's it, not an  _idiot_ , thanks for the vote of confidence."

He doesn't take the bait when he hears a creepily amused giggle come from her direction, though he does scowl when she calls him a 'good boy.' Something is abruptly thrown at his chest, and a corner of it stabs his scar uncomfortably. He barely catches it in his surprise. Black box the size of a brick, it's contents clatter together inside loudly when he shakes it. When he realizes what it is, he shoots a horrified glance to the unpredictable witch. She has a very feline smile stretching across plump lips.

He had no idea condoms could be bought in bulk. Whose side is she on, anyway? Is she poking fun at him or does she honestly believe that he's going to use all of these before the expiration date?  _Or in one lifetime?_  The count on the box is awfully close to quadruple digits. He can't decide if he's flattered or worried (do  _other_  guys get laid this much?), but he's mortified on all fronts.

Soul has no words when Blair stands, sauntering across the room to wave him away from the door. Just before she shuts it behind her, the tall woman pokes her head back in, too much in his personal space. She gives him a wink, saying "Bu-tan will try to keep Death Scythe at bay," and then shuts the door.

Wait, what?

Before he has time to think, there's a knock, and Soul swings open the door warily. It's Blair again, but this time her ears are flattened on the sides of her head, golden eyes narrowed between mascara-heavy lashes. "You treat Maka-chan bad and you wish you had nine lives, got it?" The door shuts again.

He stares at the door, dumbfounded and with the box still in his hand. What the  **fuck.** She accuses him of sleeping with his meister and possibly getting her pregnant, chucks an abnormal amount condoms at him, offers protection from psychotic fathers, then _threatens his life._

Chicks make absolutely no sense.

He doesn't know how he should handle what's just happened, but he  _does_ manage feel a little offended. The hell does she mean by treating Maka badly? "I would never harm my meister," he growls aloud to his door. At least, he wouldn't hurt her purposely. Perhaps he shouldn't say it with so much conviction when he can't account for all aspects of himself.

Irritated and confused, Soul hears a second knock on the door, and he wrenches it open with a snarl.  **"What.** Oh.Hi?"

Maka stands on the other side of the door, damp, darkened hair framing her face and coursing down defensively hunched shoulders. She's in one of his shirts once again and covers her lower half with his  _boxers_  that he has no idea how she's managed to get a hold of. She manages to look tired though she's surprised at his greeting. She blinks rapidly at his outburst. "Hi. I can sleep in my own bed if you want," she says hesitantly.

"Ahg. No- thought you were Blair," he sighs, defeated.

"Mm. What did she wa- _hahaoooww_ , I didn't know those came in economy packs."

Her self-interruption and widened green eyes remind him that he still has the box of rubbers in his hand. He tosses it blindly behind him and it loudly crashes into a wall before sliding to the floor. "Compliments of the cat," he mumbles, turning in an abrupt one-eighty to hide his torched face and dig through his dresser for clothes to sleep in. He hears Maka shut the door with a quiet click.

What, she kicks him out when she's changing, but he doesn't get to keep his own privacy? He shoots her a pointed look, turning around to face her while undoing his swim trunks. Not that he really cares, but, "I'll remember the voyeurism the next time you try to be modest, by the way." His meister's face is cherry as she slowly pivots to face the door as he changes.

After sliding into some sleep pants, Soul climbs into bed, secretly pleased as he rations himself one side of the bed so there's room for her on the other. His second pillow is now  _her_  pillow. His blanket is now  _their_  blanket. He likes this very much. When he catches Maka peering over her shoulder to see if he's finished changing, he throws her pillow at her face.

"Pervert," he teases.

"You were done anyway!"  
"You didn't know that."

He snorts at her flustered pout and tells her to hit the light. There's still novelty in feeling her weight shift the mattress, and hearing her squeak when he sneaks his hands under her shirt to feel her skin and pull her close. He feels her anxious excitement. They both are painfully aware of the box of condoms within arm's reach.

Soul would be lying if he said he wasn't tempted. She smells like strawberries and cream, and the idea of drinking her all night is delightful. Even after already getting a bit of action at the pool party, he can feel heat ready to coil in his stomach at a moment's notice. Maka probably wouldn't stop him if he slid his hands further down.

He's still convinced that rushing into sex after less than a week of 'being together' is a bad idea. But the lines are terribly blurred here. Technically, they've been together for years. She's wears his clothes for crying out loud. She uses his toothbrush. She sleeps in his bed.

Then again, he'd been frightened by an almost-catastrophe (which he isn't quite finished worrying about), been worked like a horse in a ballroom-sized oven, developed an illogical jealousy over anything with a dick talking to his meister, came like a freight train in a very not-private area, and  _then_  he'd been scared shitless by overgrown science experiments and mind-boggling felines,  **all in less than twenty-four hours.**

And that's just him- he imagines having a gigantic nerd brain the size of Maka's would probably make all of today's events ten thousand times more tiring, not even including alcohol content. They should both sleep, even if he can nearly see the sparks flying off their bodies at every touch and shift. Soul only encases her in his arms and squeezes her back to his chest, resisting the urge to press his hips against her.

"Oof. What am I, a stuffed animal?"

"Mm. Teddy bear," he jokes, much to her confusion, the smell of strawberries filling his nose.

 

* * *

 

 

But when he dreams, he smells formaldehyde. That terrible smell that never dissipates, choking his lungs with an alien scent that lurks in every corner. It can't be ignored. It's as present and persistent as black blood. The smell sticks to him like sweat and foreboding, tainting his pores with sickening, paranoid dread.

Soul wakes with a jerk, his heart thundering in his throat. Maka is still wrapped in his arms, and she stirs with his shudder. A flutter of notes faintly reaches his mind as she calls out for him. He soothes her with extremely false feelings of calm. "Don't wake up," he croaks out, smothering the urge to flee and scream. Faint tinges of grey light up the sky and peek through slits in the mini-blinds. It's almost dawn.

He still smells dream-chemicals. Soul takes several moments to breathe and wiggle his toes- checking if they are actually his to move. He's afflicted with images of his body not under his control, doing sexual and dark and very not-gentle things at Little Ogre's whim; plagued by flashes of thick, saturated blood smeared on the skin of his meister'sthighs,trailing down the length of her body, stamped with his fingerprints. An alarming, vibrant red, then darkening and going black, the feel of his lips splitting into a demon smile without his consent...

Soul's initial thought is immediately shoved away, but it keeps coming back, relentlessly torturing him.  _Did that dream belong to him or to the parasite?_  He tries to slide his arm out from underneath Maka's head because being so close to the body that he had been  _defiling_  only moments ago feels terribly wrong.

She's not asleep. Her hand wraps around his wrist to keep him from retreating. She can hear him, can catch glimpses of his nightmare through the link, can feel his hand still trembling. The link caresses him, sneakily latches into his weak spots and brings him closer to her. This isn't cool. The chick is not supposed to comfort the guy after a nightmare. Maka twists in his arms to face him, quick to hold him still when he tries to shy away, feeling trapped and shaken by the thought of touching her skin and leaving bloody fingerprints. He's afraid to seek out her eyes in the dark, afraid to see tears in them again, afraid that there may be some in his if he's not careful, but she only presses his face to her neck.

Soul hears that familiar, comforting beat and a feathery embrace that surely must be wings. "You said it, didn't you?" Her voice is barely a whisper, tinged with sleep and surety. "Soul would never harm his meister."

She heard that, huh? He swallows thickly. He's not so sure if that statement is true, but he allows her heart to calm him, beating to the tempo of a silent lullaby as he waits for sunrise.

 

* * *

 

 

At least the air conditioner is on this time.

Skipping breakfast, he'd left Maka asleep in bed to drive around aimlessly for a few hours before coming to Shibusen. His stomach growls loudly, harmonizing with the endless frenzy of Spirit's voice. Soul thinks he may need to keep Maka from coming anywhere near his neck ever again, but he's grateful to be slave-driven into the ground- it keeps his mind from wandering to dark rooms and darker blood. He tiredly unlatches the legs of the ninth collapsible dining table he's set up in the ballroom.

Muscle memory takes over as he listens to the older weapon. Drape table cloth. Retrieve another table leaning on the wall. Roll table over. Unlatch legs. Lock legs. He yawns in the middle of smoothing the wrinkles out of table cloth number ten as Spirit continues his rant about innocence and how Soul is a terrible influence on his daughter.

"For a guy that chases anything with tits, you sure do spout a lot of  _puritanical crap,"_ Soul drawls over his shoulder.

Spirit sits on one of many benches Soul has already lined up against the walls of the ballroom, hunched over and trying to untangle a mass of skull-shaped twinkle lights. His voice echoes from across the room. "You'll understand when you have a daughter. God forbid."

"Uhg, right?" Soul agrees, disgusted. "'Cause she'll be related to  **you.**  That'll be freakin' hell." Just the thought of keeping Spirit from smothering small grandchildren is enough to make Soul want to build a bunker and never come out.

He looks over his shoulder again, yawning, surprised at the sudden loud, scraping slap of a bundle of twinkle lights falling into the floor. Maka's father looks like he's just seen a ghost, and Soul carefully looks the other direction in case there really  _is_ one floating around somewhere, which is totally plausible. Between his career choice, circle of friends, and being partnered with the daughter and heir of the most confusing and mindbogglingly-insane being short of Asura, he'd been subjected to ghosts, serial killers, witches, demons, aquatic kidneys, and attempts on his life while sleeping on his own damn couch. Soul has seen some pretty weird shit in his relatively short life.

It's just the two of them in the ballroom though, so he's stumped. Spirit is now reaching a peculiar shade of eggplant while staring at him, and Soul only ranks the color at about a four point seven out of ten on his Weird Shit-o-Meter.

Then Soul backtracks and replays his previous statement, his past words slowly contorting his face into one that mirrors Spirit's shell-shock. It may be too late for the bunker. He blames sleep deprivation for  _c_ asually implying that _he would be fathering Spirit's grandchildren._

"UHHH," he nearly cries out, belatedly, "THAT ISN'T TO SAY THAT WE'VE... SHE'S NOT... WE HAVEN'T...! Oh damn."

Just hand him a shovel now, please, to help him dig the grave he's already fallen into. Soul bends over to mash his head into the table, swearing under his breath. His stomach gurgles pitifully in complaint. He's going to die, and he's going to die hungry and a virgin.

Then things get even weirder. Spirit Albarn doesn't murder him. In fact, he doesn't even come near him, though the killing intent is tangible. He keeps his back to the walls and inches away, banging into multiple benches en route to the ballroom doors. He loudly says in an intimidating voice that is ruined by stuttering,  _ **"N-N-NOT BEFORE MARRIAGE,"**_ before proclaiming that he's going to get lunch, fleeing and fervently ordering the younger weapon to finish his job.

Solid ten. Whatever the fuck just happened ranks at a solid ten on the Weird Shit-o-Meter.

Soul pats his chest, making sure he's still in one piece. He slowly walks over to the abandoned lights and distractedly plucks at the tangled blob of wire and miniature, translucent skulls.  **How is he not dead?**  He  _did_  just basically tell Death Scythe, ultimate weapon of Shinigami-sama, that any kids Soul would have would be the result of boning the man's daughter, right? His life had flashed before his eyes and everything!

Had Blair..? No way. That conversation had been just last night. She would have had to preemptively sink in her claws beforehand...

Holy  **shit,**  Spirit had not only spared his life, but had also mentioned  _marriage_ , like it's really an option. Like Soul wouldn't be murdered at the altar. Like it's not completely out of reach for him.

Okay wait, calm the fuck down. Soul finally untangles the twinkle lights in his hands, purposefully walking out to one of several balconies to wrap the lights around the guardrails. He needs to think this through. Has  _Maka_  thought about this? Is this something she thinks about all the time? He'd even said to her that 'boyfriend' sounded too temporary, which he was serious about, but he hadn't thought of the implications of that statement.

But now that he does think about it, what the hell do married people do? They're affectionate. They live together. They eat together. They sleep together. They  _sleep_  together.

Four out of five. Maybe four-and-a- **half.**  This is becoming unnaturally creepy.

Soul thinks he needs more sleep before tackling such thoughts alone. Finished with wrapping the first strand of lights around the railing, he turns around, suddenly face to face with the reflection of his future boss in the large, shining glass of the balcony's open door.

"WUAH!"  
"Yo! Don't fall off."

He's going to die of a heart attack if this keeps up. "Shinigami-sama."

"Afternoon, Soul-kun. How are the preparations coming?"

Dumbfounded and still recovering from being startled (how long had he been lurking there?), Soul gestures inside the ballroom, indicating the mostly-finished decorations. Shinigami blankly stares at him, and the weapon realizes that the death god can't exactly turn around his own reflection.

"Uh. Right." He walks into the room from the balcony, awkwardly pulling the door's handle behind him to turn the headmaster around to view the ballroom's progress.

"Mmm? Very good," Shinigami exclaims, sounding pleased. "And where is your supervisor?"

"Ah-" Soul doesn't want to think about the conversation leading up to Spirits abrupt disappearance. "He went to get lunch. Sir."

"I see."

It's sounds like the headmaster is finished with checking in on him, but to Soul's extreme wariness, Shinigami remains posted at the door, staring expressionlessly at him. Waiting. Expecting something.

Oh! Soul performs a jerking bow, belatedly thanking him for the surprise reimbursement on his bike. Apparently it's the correct answer, for the death god initiates another conversation instead of standing in intimidating silence. "You're very welcome! Professor Stein had mentioned your good performance on your last mission. He said you deserved it."

This catches him off-guard. "Really?" Soul doesn't feel the same at all- the mission to Madagascar still feels like a gigantic flop to him. His endurance had been run dry, he'd nearly succumbed to insanity, and they had to be rescued by Maka, her father,  _and_  Kid with the Thompsons.

"Mm yes," Shinigami hums, large white hand stroking the tip of his mask where a chin should be. "The black blood is a heavy burden, and you kept your assigned technician safe despite the fact. The professor was impressed. You did well!"

Soul is unsure how to handle praise from the Head Skull-Cheese himself, much less if he even deserves it, but he stumbles over another 'thanks' anyway.

The death god's voice is light and carefree, set in a cadence that can be easily mistaken for useless rambling, but Soul knows better. Anything this masked man says is not casually uttered. "Though you were in quite a pinch without your meister. Next time we'll be sure to send you out  _only with Maka-chan."_

"...Sir?"  
"She helps you control the dark, yes? A-OK!  _Don't loose sleep over it, Soul-kun."_

It's really creepy how close Shinigami-sama can dance near every little thing going on in his head. The death god abruptly bids him farewell before Soul has time to think, just as Spirit slinks back into the ballroom with a bag of submarine sandwiches.

Spirit politely throws a one at his face before stalking off to a bench to eat. Soul keeps his distance, numbly sitting on the floor and unwrapping his lunch. Control the dark, huh? Had he failed some test he hadn't been aware of? Not to say he'd been looking forward to being separated from Maka but, does this mean he's no longer slated to become Shinigami's personal weapon? He glances up at the man who currently fills that job description. Spirit's eyes are slammed shut as he furiously eats. Soul can't help but notice that, though both sandwiches are more or less the same, Spirit's sub is dressed with sliced mushrooms.

Well, maybe he shouldn't look too deeply into it.

"Oi, gramps." Cringe. Maybe that's  _not_  the best name to call him right now. "You'll be at the formal tomorrow?"

Spirit glowers at him over his sandwich. "Of course. I'm a chaperone."

Soul doesn't mention that the idea of the man overseeing hundreds of attractively dressed young women is a terrifying one. "Bring flowers."

A lot of scowling and uncomfortable chewing later, Spirit grudgingly confirms with a muttered, "In a pot."

 

* * *

It's a quarter past three by the time he gets home, finally finished with preparations for the formal. His mind is still reeling. He wants to speak with Maka, to see what she thinks about the ultimate weirdness of her father not murdering him and Shinigami throwing him for a loop.

It's freezing in the apartment- she's cranked the air conditioner down to arctic levels, most likely in stubborn retaliation against being out in the summer heat. Soul glances in her room as he walks past it, finding a few shopping bags lazily tossed aside and a pair of dress shoes haphazardly unwrapped on her comforter.

He finds her napping in his bed (their bed?), almost in the same position he had left her this morning, but she's dressed in her own shorts and a rumpled tank-top that rides up her stomach instead. She's sprawled on top of the covers, so he has to awkwardly fold them up and over her because she's an idiot and would probably get sick with the air so damn cold. Soul quietly sneaks away to take a shower, but by the time he comes back, she's already kicked the covers off of her like a stubborn tomboy.

Well fine. He yawns, the idea of a nap already making his feet move forward to get into bed with her. After his wet head touches the pillow beside her however, he's finds himself wide awake. All he can think about is cryptic conversations with a death god and how he's come full circle to the place where he had retreated from this morning, fleeing nightmares.

_"Don't loose sleep over it."_

He can smell formaldehyde just thinking about it, but he needs to settle this.

Maka breathes a deep sigh in her sleep, and he feels the link shifting, reflexively inching towards him to mend the connection that had been severed by distance all day. Her subconscious floats lightly, as if on a breeze, before fluttering and lighting into his grasp with unguarded familiarity. He hopes he can steal just a little bit of her courage; Can borrow it like borrowing a lantern as he shuts his eyes, gritting his teeth and sinking deeply to face the dark.

* * *

It takes awhile to find the Black Room. It's not where he remembers, and he can't keep a tight grip on it. It has a mind of its own, being evasive and stubbornly trying to slide out of his grasp. He wonders if he should have shifted into a scythe beforehand- if that would've made the trip easier.

He finally grapples with a doorknob that he can only see when not looking at it directly. Opening the door, he passes through curtains that open at his whim. He feels his clothes melt into a suit, dressed in a jacket that promotes better posture and shoes that aren't meant to be shuffled along the floor.

Soul's relieved to find that it only smells like dusty corners and hot, burning wicks.

Little Ogre looks unamused, sprawled sloppily in a high-backed chair. One clawed little hand holds a mostly-empty glass of something that might be wine, its liquid black as night. "What are you doing here," the demon asks, annoyed.

Candles glow more brightly as Soul walks by, and his smaller, more devious counterpart squints in his direction, irritated. "We need to talk," Soul says, black shoes snapping on the tiled floor. He sits at his piano, brushing at the still-healing scald marks on the glossy surface, opening the fallboard gratefully running his fingertips along ivory and pitch.

"So talk," Little Ogre says, lifting himself out of his slouching posture, the action reminiscent of a mutated orangutan. He rests an elbow on an arm of the chair, haughtier than usual.

Soul doesn't reply. The demon is part of him, and can read his thoughts just as well without his help. Red eyelids slide shut, as if replaying something in his bulbous head, a hand swirling the contents of his glass idly. Flashes of the nightmare speed through Soul's mind as Little Ogre brings them to focus. Teary green eyes. A ruthless shove between her legs. Too-sharp nails digging into marred skin.

"Ahhh, that lovely little number. Ooh! Look at you go. Or I guess  **me.**  That looks like it hurts," he mocks with a leering grin before taking a long sip of wine. Soul growls, but holds his temper. After a moment of silence, Little Ogre's smile abruptly falls into a bored sneer. "It's a dream. What do you want from me?"

"You've given me nightmares before. Whose is this?"

The demon has no eyebrows, but the area of his face where they should be contorts skeptically. "I'm flattered, but that one is  _all yours_. You were pretty twisted and paranoid long before I came along," he sighs, a hand coming up to fiddle with one of the buttons of his double-breasted blazer. He darkly glares at his recently emptied glass. "Even if I _could_  do something that exciting, No-tits would bloody know in an instant. Now, if that's all you'll be needing, please leave. I didn't want you here in the first place, and I'd like to rot in peace."

Rot? And since when is he not welcome here? It's his own soul, damn it.

"You may be dumber than a sack of rocks." Little Ogre carelessly flings his empty glass to the left, where it shatters on the floor and is immediately absorbed by red and black checkerboard tiles. He reaches down beside the chair with a long arm and picks up a blurry, smoky facsimile of a wine bottle and takes a direct drink from it.

The Weird Shit-o-Meter is quickly going off the charts. Little Ogre is  _depressed._  This is new to him, and somewhat entertaining. "That meddling death god said it to your face, even! You're only partnered up with  _Anti-Demon-Girl_  from now on." The demon pronounces 'anti' like 'aunty,' sulking as he takes another swig from the wine bottle. "Of course it's bad," he snaps, teeth gnashing at Soul's silent question. "She's got that damned insanity repellent. And stop playing that song! It's annoying."

Soul's hands pause for a moment, unsure of when he had starting playing his latest composition. Then he continues anyway, enjoying Little Ogre's uncomfortable scowl- which becomes even more agitated when Soul reaches the movement he'd written for Maka.

"You tried to possess her when we were fighting the harpy bitch," Soul counters, trying to find any loophole in his parasite's story.

"We've had this conversation. It's in my nature. It's what I do," the demon deadpans. "You saw how well that turned out, anyway.  _Pointless._ I'm just a slave to her as you are, Master 'Even-My-Own-Blood-Protects-You'," he says scathingly, making a disgusted face. Little Ogre, annoyed with his host's presence, throws his wine bottle at him, like a crotchety old man shooing children off his front porch. "Go away! Dinner's ready!"

Soul hurriedly leans back to avoid having the bottle collide with his head and falls off the back of the piano bench, briefly wondering how many times he's met various floors the past week. But when he opens his eyes, the ceiling is white and familiar, and the floor is hardwood instead of tile. His back smarts from falling, his legs still draped on the mattress.

From this upside-down view, he finds the physical mock-up of his Black Room suit, freshly dry-cleaned and still in it's protective plastic liner. Pinstriped and tailored to fit, it's assembled neatly, hanging off a hook on his closet door. She'd apparently taken it out with her when she'd gone shopping today.

He knows he shouldn't take anything the demon says at face value, but he can't help but feel a little bit relieved. The suit is in her hands now.

Soul hears the familiar rhythm of his meister's footsteps coming down the hallway. "What was that ...noise?" Her head peeks around the corner of his doorway, searching for him blindly and then spying him on the floor. "Are you okay?"

"Hi Aunty," he blurts.

Her dumbfounded face is priceless. "Are you  _awake?_ " Maka pads over to him, plucking at each of his ankles by the hem of his jeans to place them on the floor. She helps haul him to his feet. He groans, finding his body aching from working in the ballroom for two days.

"Sore," he answers her silent question and thorough prodding she gives him over the link. Standing close together now, she looks directly in his face, uncomfortably asking if he's had another nightmare. She doesn't mention her worry at his disappearance this morning, and how it had distracted her all day while dress hunting. He can taste these thoughts from the link as easily as an open buffet.

"Not really," he quietly replies. He rubs the side of his face with a hand, dragging it through tangled hair that had dried in his sleep "How long was I out?"

Maka shrugs. She doesn't know when he came home. "I've been up for about an hour, so longer than that. Tried not to wake you- know you didn't sleep much last night."

He grunts, not having much to say on that subject. He's curious at how floury her hands are. Soul hooks two fingers around a skinny wrist, bringing it up for closer inspection. "What's for dinner?"

Distracted by the touch and topic change, she bites her bottom lip before looking up in his face. "It sounds weird but..."

"But what?"  
"Fish."  
"Haah? You don't even like-"

 _"I know,"_ she says with a grimace. "But I've been wanting to eat it. It's really confusing," she whines, holding her hands out in front of her like they're diseased, looking at them in disgust. He can see dried-up batter caked around her cuticles from preparing one of his favorite foods.

Maka's end of the link is indignant when he bursts out laughing.

* * *

"Uhhhhhg. How do you be so awesome," he moans. Sitting in bed and dressed for sleep, he's nearly folded over, melting in bliss. The room is bathed in rosy tints, long-lived summer daylight finally beginning to fade. Maka sits behind him and digs deeply into twin knots hidden along the edges of his bare shoulder blades. Her fingertips are familiar with how tension builds in the usual places, and how hard she can press without causing too much pain. He's going to drool, and he doesn't care.

She only laughs at his praise. Maka speaks of her girlish adventures with the rest of the chicks from Spartoi, and being bullied into a dress that she's not sure she'll have the courage to wear tomorrow. Soul's ears perk at this, but he says nothing, groaning underneath the back rub of the century. "Did Papa give you a hard time today?"

"Not  _exactly,"_  he admits, leaning heavily on his elbows, the muscles in his lower back stretching. He never wants to see another bench or folding table or skull-shaped twinkle light for the rest of his life, but these thoughts pale in comparison to certain conversation (if it can be called that) with Spirit.

"What happened this time," she asks, sounding unsurprised.

Suddenly nervous about what he's about to bring up even though he had planned on talking with her about it when he got home, he bites the inside of his cheek. "He mentioned marriage. Or rather  _threatened_  me with it," he murmurs to the mattress.

Maka's fingers pause and then jerkily resume. The calm relaxation they had been basking in quickly dissipates. The tide of the link rises with her heartbeat, lapping at the shores of his mind, testing to see if she had heard him correctly. "Wh-what would he know about something like that, anyway," she tries to angrily say, her voice thick and wavering. "What a big hypocrite."

She's leading the subject in a direction he hadn't planned. For a moment, he regrets having said anything, but then he mentally slaps himself. He should have explained the situation more fully. Soul confusedly sits up, her hands sliding limply off his back. He turns around to face her, his sleep pants twisting awkwardly around his hips and ankles. She wont look at him, rose-tinged bangs hiding her face in shadow as she stares at her crossed legs, fingers idly playing with her toes. She looks so very small in his shirt.

"Sorry," she forces out. "I knew he'd give you a hard time."

"Maka..."  
"I'll try to talk some sense into him tomorrow-"  
"Wait-"  
"-and get him off your case."

The link is a palpitating chaos, trying to distract him from the smothering of her disappointment.  _She's taken this whole thing entirely wrong._  She thinks Soul's irritated from being hassled about their relationship. (Well he  _is_ , but not from her father, which is weird. He can see how easily it is to be misunderstood with that in consideration.) Her posture is apologetic as she continues to spew useless babble, because she doesn't know that he might be in a truce with Spirit instead of a war.

"Hey.  _Hey,"_  he says emphatically, putting a hand over her mouth. "Shut up for a second." Her eyebrows furrow, the link perplexed and poised on his words. Soul scratches the back of his head with his free hand, trying to figure out what those words should be, exactly. Her green eyes are much darker in the twilight, staring at his face intently.

"Spirit said that  **after**  I told him," Soul pauses to take a deep breath,"-that ARRRGH." Absurdly embarrassed, he takes his hand from her face and covers his own with it, leaning back and collapsing on the bed in mortification. Not cool. He's lost his cool completely. He shouldn't have said anything! There's no hope left in the world for him or his pitifully misplaced Man Card.

"Oh," she squeaks. And then another, more situation-encompassing,  _"Ohh."_ Awkwardness and slightly frightening revelations are like unstoppable waves crashing into helpless rocks on the link. He feels chilled, hesitant hands curiously patting his legs.

"What're you doing," he quietly groans at the ceiling.

"Seeing if you're a zombie. 'Cause Papa surely must have killed you." She sounds calm and collected, even though the link gives her away- adrift in anxiety and looking for something sturdy to stand on.

"Still alive," he assures her. He's not sure  _how,_  but he's breathing.

Maka nudges his legs apart, which startles him. She crawls forward to lay on his chest. He's irked that she actively listens to how quickly his heart is beating, especially when hers pounds just as hard. It heats her face and he can feel her blush on his skin. They stay that way for a while, and he enjoys the weight of her body on him, but his mind wanders, wondering if she's already forgotten the underlying conversation, or if she cares that he blurts out certain things when he doesn't even know if she  _wants_  those things.

"I don't dislike children," she timidly says aloud in reply to his thoughts. "Or marriage either, really," Maka murmurs. Her breath on his chest sends sparks that make his fingers twitch. She's left the door open for conversation. He wets his lips, as they've suddenly become dry. Soul tries to absorb every ounce of courage from her body to steady himself.

"...I," he tries to start, uncovering his face and craning his neck to look at her. Eyes like wet glass stare back at him, and he drowns in her hopeful feelings. The shadows her lashes cast on her nose and cheekbones are long and stretched. This needs to come out, or else it'll float to the bottom in the darkness of bottled-up feelings and doubts. She swallows nervously, nodding at him to continue. "I'd like to, you know, help. With that. Sometime." Does she understand what he's trying to say? Words have never been his strong point. "Later.  _Really_  later."

Her heart thumps rapidly against him, pulling the link taught with every pulse, bringing them closer together exponentially. She gets it. She gets it so much that it overflows out her eyes. Her tears are hot on his scar. He feels defenseless for the half-second after he says "If you'll have me," until she nods vigorously, the link trembling with a happy, colorful, 'o _f course I will, stupid.'_ She's irritated that she's crying, hurriedly trying to brush the wetness from her eyes with the back of her hand. Hooking his fingers under her arms to drag her closer to his face, he crushes her as she showers him with kisses and saltwater.

She tries to say a million things at once, though not a single word comes out. But her thoughts are loud and clear, the link stretched wide open. When she dreams of the future, he is at her side. She does not want anyone else. Maka rears back, straddling him and reaching for his hand. She tilts it at the wrist, inclining her head with closed eyes and pressing soft, pliant lips against his knuckles. The effect is not lost on him. A promise is made along silent channels.

"Maka."

Her breath stutters against his fingers at the sound of her name. He pushes himself up, pulling his hand away from her to lightly tug at the ends of her hair- bringing her closer, meeting her mouth. She's too ridiculously beautiful. He feels in a daze as he whispers his love to her against her lips, feeling her heart soar and taking his with it. She leads him far away, far from the ground he's always stuck on, far from the murky dark he's always fumbling in. She chokes out her reply, voice dancing with the admission, chanting it in between kisses that steadily grow in intensity. She loves him. She loves him.

Soul licks away the salty wetness that has run down her exposed neck, his mouth leaving behind goosebumps. He tries to lick those away as well, though his tongue only breeds more in its wake. He leans her back, draping her legs over his thighs to give him space to nestle between. Suddenly she smiles, tears abated, her face lighting up in barely-stifled amusement. A small hand reaches up to his face and then his neck, lightly fingering the bruise underneath his ear that she had left.

He snorts at her. Ignoring the soreness in his shoulders, he bends low to leave a mark of his own- his teeth are more suited for it anyway. He can't decide if her breathy gasps are his favorite or the tiny mews that escape her while she squirms underneath him. He's hard already, and when Maka squirms as he mouths her neck, she brushes against him dangerously.

The link steals everything from him as she tries to commit every part of him to memory. The feel of her un-gloved palms is still a treat for him. They're small and slender, shyly sliding down his arms and then his chest, leaving burns at his nipples and the edges of damp scar tissue. Her fingertips feel raw where they dance on him, not so much creating sparks anymore than first-degree burns, melting his nerves.

After a moment's pause, urgency wins over lurking nightmares for the time being. It's his shirt that she wears, so he ignores her complaints about impracticality when he shreds it off of her with a momentary blade. The evening light is fading quickly now, and only the whitest of whites are still easy to see in the dimness of his bedroom. Slivers of light reflect off the glass of her hooded eyes, and her pale breasts- flesh that has never seen the light of day- are stark and flawless underneath his darker hands.

He has a fixation with the way the waistband of his boxers lightly digs into the curve of her hips. Soul plays with it, running a finger between rough fabric and absurdly smooth skin while she jerks and giggles and smacks his sides with her knees to get him to quit tickling her. He pulls them off of her, bending her legs towards her chest and up against his, and sliding them over long thighs and shins. Other than her arms still in the sleeves of the shirt he'd sliced down the middle, she's bare before him, and she expresses the unfairness of this fact.

Soul wonders if he should be more alarmed that they're probably going to be having sex before the end of the night despite that he'd fought with himself so forcefully about it the past few days. Cool guys aren't hypocrites. But as Maka pulls her straightened legs back from him (a display of flexibility that makes his head tilt to the left in fascination), mind and body are on completely different pages again, and he doesn't think he can win this time. He fervently prays that he'll last longer than five minutes, and that his nightmares stay in the dark. Feeling a little vulnerable with his hips up in the air, Soul helps her tug off the rest of his clothes.

Sitting back up, they're face to face again, slightly at a loss for what to do next. She'd wanted his pants off, so here he is. He can breathe in her emotions, feeling them fill his lungs and swirl together in eddies of nervous anticipation. Maka looks unsure but excited, and his eyes are drawn to her teeth worrying her bottom lip, her heated gaze drifting to his dick. The bed creaks when she suddenly leans forward, nudging his arms out of the way. He can't get any words of protest out before the sensation of a wet, searing tongue renders him speechless.

He props himself up on his hands, leaning back and stretching his legs around her as she kneels, long strands of faintly golden hair tickling his thighs. Soul watches as the collar of his ruined shirt slowly slides off her shoulder, and he shifts his weight to one hand, taking the back of the other to graze the silky skin there. Each breath he takes is held longer than the one before it and exhaled more forcefully than the last, until finally Maka finds his voice, wetly taking the whole of his cock into her mouth.

She must really enjoy making him squirm. Soul has to momentarily grip her shoulder for support. The link thrums in satisfaction as she hears his distracted moans. She purses her lips, sucking and gliding, controlling his body with her tongue. Maka licks until he digs his heels into the sheets, the fabric rustling under his feet. He brushes her hair away from her neck, the pale column hypnotically bobbing with her efforts.

A flick of wetness around a particularly sensitive spot on his dick brings him alarmingly close to where he's not ready to go just yet. Soul hurriedly puts a hand to her jaw, preventing her from moving any further, slowly nudging her away. He finally remembers how to breathe properly when her mouth pops off of him, warm saliva cooling on twitching flesh. She worriedly asks if she's done anything wrong while he sucks in air, trying to calm himself.

He barks a strained laugh. "No," he says hoarsely, kissing her roughly before tipping her to her back, her head crashing on a pillow. He worms between her knees again, running a hands along the insides of supple thighs, holding her open. He bends low, introducing his mouth to the taste of her skin, feeding from her dampening folds. She piteously whines with a toss of her head.

Soul licks a finger before sliding it in. He tries to concentrate on only pleasing her, kissing around her clit and stirring around her insides, but it's hard not to notice how god damn arousing it is being in her with just a single digit of a sensitive hand. Her palms run along his scalp, dragging him by his tangled hair to meet her face again. He does his best not to squish her, his free hand slapping loudly on the headboard of the bed as he arches over her body, allowing her to taste herself on his lips. Her pussy quickly becomes wet and needy and humid while his tongue slides with hers.

He twists his hand so he can brush her clit with his thumb, breathing in the smell of her hair as the current of Maka's pleasure shifts and she starts to grind against him. After a small while, nipping at the satin of her tits and wrestling with her flushing body, he's rewarded with helpless shock and a loud, arousing wail. Her pussy sucks greedily on his finger, clamping down so much that it makes his toes tingle at the implications.

He pulls his hand out from her, filing away her smell and taste that he will always smugly associate with her orgasm. It's a little weird to feel her primitive and urgent need to be filled- so alien from the more familiar craving  **to**  fill, and suddenly, Soul suffers an internal debate while his meister tries to find her lungs. He's unsure if he should continue. She's tiny and gangly and one finger isn't enough to prepare for  _that,_  and if he keeps going  _that's definitely going to happen._  Maka watches him with hooded eyes as he hesitantly wets his middle finger, aware of his concerns.

"Don't run away," she simply says, in between breaths. The words are familiar, coming to him from a hospital room that already feels so far away, where her courage had wrapped around him and steadied his wavering, fumbling heart. She wills for him to hear her _. "Your dreams are dreams. Together, we are awake."_

Her trembling makes the bed shake as he presses his bundled fingers against her, stretching and nudging at her entrance. He'd done this to her once last night, but only for a moment before her legs had buckled and she had turned to putty. Soul locks the arm he supports himself with, hovering over her to see what little reaction he can gather in the dark. Maka shudders at the intrusion, panting loudly. When Soul inches his fingers inside, the link immediately becomes a muddied hurricane of discomfort that whips him from all directions. She's tight- so much that it feels like she's trying to reject his fingers.

"S-s-stop," she cries aloud, her hand hurriedly shooting between them to latch on his wrist. Shit. He moves to pull away from her because she's in  _pain_  and he's  _causing it_  and it scares the daylights out of him, but she tightens her grip like a vice, ceasing any movement at all. She repeats herself. "Stop.  _Wait."_ She's reduced to nothing but quivering flesh, her harrowed breath filling the room.

He tries to relax her as best he can through the link, even if he is anything but relaxed himself. He's nervous, and unbearably hard- the smell of her arousal and sweat threatening to overtake him in a haze, and the sound of her voice simultaneously worrying him and turning him on. Soul nuzzles her neck, her collarbones, everywhere he can reach, pressing his dick along the inside of her thigh for any sort of relief. And then, impossibly, she pulls his wrist closer, bringing him in further, her moan hitting his ears and nearly knocking his sanity loose. Soul desperately tries to breathe while she takes her time, pulling him in a shade more deeply, then back out again, essentially  _fucking herself with his fingers_ in slow, agonizing motion. Soul could come from just her link feedback alone if he isn't careful, Maka's feelings gradually morphing from discomfort to addictive pleasure.

When she bucks against his hand, skin grinding against the hilt of his knuckles, wordlessly begging for him to  _move_ so she doesn't have to do it herself, he doesn't obey because he simply can't take any more torture. He pulls his fingers out of her and licks them clean, testing the curious, tangy sensation again. She makes a disappointed, frustrated noise at her sudden emptiness, and then she throws her arm over her face, acutely embarrassed at her behavior. Her eyes are glazed and glittering as she peers at him from under her forearm. Soul has a hard time untangling himself from her, not wanting to lose contact with her skin, but he slides to his feet and blindly makes his way to the corner of his room, kicking around for a hastily-discarded box of condoms.

Soul returns to the bed with a square wrapper. Maka sits up in predictable curiosity, watching him fight the tremors in his hands as he carefully rips open the packet, feeling slick latex at his fingertips. He hisses as he rolls it on; It's fucking cold and slightly uncomfortable.

Last chance. He wants her more than anything, but he's not sure if he's thinking clearly anymore. Nightmares, the unknowns of black blood, and simply doing this final, life-altering thing with the person closest to his soul are all equally terrifying. Maka leans back, making room for him, reaching out to bring him near. Her love washes over him, thoughts endearing and sincere. She wants to be connected with him so much her heart feels ready to burst. She's sorry she asks so much of him all the time, but she needs to be even closer to his soul. Will he do this? Is he afraid? She is too- but only a little. They are so much stronger when facing danger and looking death in the eye together- it will undoubtedly the same with life.

Soul has felt the teasing graze of unseen feathers. He retains memories of a smoky dress shifting under her command. He's seen her holding a bright candle in the depths of shadow. She'd told him to not run away.  _"It's okay to open yourself with me,"_  she had said to him back then, in a hospital bed and staring at him with eyes like soothing pools of light.  _"We trust each other, don't we?"_ He can't trust himself, but he thinks he can trust her to help him control the dark.

"Ready?" She breathlessly says, shivering from cold or anticipation or both.

"...Maybe. Are  _you_?"

She nods with a shy hum, her hair sliding on a pillowcase. Everything is loud as they try to get situated: Breath on flushing skin, skin on rumpled sheets, bed creaking under his hands and knees. Here? No. Oh.  _Here._

Maka whimpers as he pokes the head of his cock inside, and her legs clamp against his hips at the intrusion. She trembles as she climbs up, wrapping her arms around his neck and cradling her head to his chest. The link jumps to life, reaching to him, desperately seeking comfort. Her virginity is in the process of being lost, and she needs his soul to fill the gap that it will leave behind. Soul tries to keep his cool and to connect with her to soothe and contain her feelings. He also tries to not collapse into a puddle of bliss at the feel of her warm, hot, disastrously molten flesh as he slowly pushes in.

There's no barrier for him to break, but it's still uncomfortable for her regardless. She pants between whispered requests to stop,  _wait,_  and go- every half inch maddening and wonderful, his arms shaking in restraint. Is he in control? He thinks he is, though his blood roars in his ears. He just needs to remember to breathe.

 _"Ahhn,_  are you... in yet?"

"Sorry, there's still-" he squints, interrupted by a particularly distracting twitch from her, "-a little bit. Maka." A few agonizing moments later, her thoughts a jumble of things like _'impossible'_  and  _''too warm'_  and  _'so deep,'_  he's fully inside. He sinks to his forearms, resting on his elbows, forcefully breathing through his nose while she adjusts to being filled to the brim. There's no space between them anymore. He can't tell where he ends and she begins. So far, so very, very good. There's no signs of being possessed by anything whatsoever, except maybe the raging desire to thrust until his hips disintegrate.  **He can do this.**  Is she okay?

"I think so," she says in a tiny voice that he feels through his chest. She worms a little, tilting her head back and resting it on the pillow again, steadying herself with a measured exhale of breath. Soul buries his face in her neck and mussed hair. She timidly asks in a shaky whisper if it feels good for him.

"Extremely," he grits out, his cock twitching inside and making her breath hitch.

"Soul," she mewls, the vowels stretched long with wonder and need.  _Go._ Her silent command makes him shiver. He gratefully glides out and back in with a satisfying moan. Her back arches in reply.  _More. Again._

Maka writhes beneath him, both of them building a sweat even though the room could be sub-zero for all he knows. Her skin slides against his, muscles gathering tension, legs constricting around his waist as his hips meet hers. He tries to keep any semblance of tempo, but Maka sobs his name, at first quiet and tinged with disbelief, and then loud and wanton and encouraging, begging for him to go faster.  _Please. Please._  He must obey.

She's close to peaking, the link sinking into him and clinging in desperation. Soul clutches her to him, her pleasure blinding him and building his, and he pounds into her in a frenzy, his own moans rumbling against her, feverishly fighting to keep from exploding. He wants to hear her sing- wants her to ring in his ears and wring him completely of everything. Maka's nails dig everywhere- his shoulders, his neck, his back, his hips- her body shaking from his thrusts, her voice climbing octaves. And then she yowls, throaty and euphoric, her spine contorting and pussy fiercely quivering around him, pushing him off a cliff and into a black hole. That's it- that's all the time he has, here it is, he's dying, he's  _coming-_ and the stars yank him to the heavens and fling him through space, only to turn him around and shoot him back to the earth with little remorse.

Soul finds himself laying heavily on Maka, his muscles involuntarily twitching. Sliding out of her makes his eyes slam shut and stupid, unmanly noises come out of his mouth. He makes a half-hearted attempt to not steamroll her as he collapses to his back on cold sheets. When he opens his eyes, turning his head to find her, she's still there, and seeing her face gives him so much relief. She's out of breath and miraculously  _alive,_  no bruises, no bloody fingerprints, sweaty and absurdly gorgeous. The link pulses as she tiredly grins at him, happy and victorious.

 _"Please_  don't ask 'what was that'," he says, voice raspy from howling a little while ago. He swallows thickly between heaving breaths, " -'cause if you do, I'mma cry."

Maka's smile is infectious. He thinks he sees the shimmering shadow of a wing, but when he blinks, it's gone.


	24. Canvas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit content.

**Maka**

 

The bond sings when they touch. It's heavy, like her very blood cells are magnetized, the mass of her soul caught in his personal pull of gravity. He's confused, or maybe she is- confused but alive, emotions flip-flopping between love and amazed satisfaction and a giddy urgency from more ancient rhythms.

Her nerves are raw and tangled up with his. Soul takes a breath, but her chest moves instead. She sits up, but it's her partner's damp back that peels off the sheets. They're so close and convoluted that when he complains about the temperature of the apartment, it is she who gets goosebumps that swirl down her arms and legs; So combined and connected that her toes curl when his feet touch the chilled hardwood.

He makes a noise somewhat similar to a content sigh after consuming a soul. Soul shoots her a crooked, sheepish grin over his shoulder. "Uh- I'll be back."

Maka hears sultry notes, feeling them as clearly as if she holds a tiny piano in the palm of her hand. He walks, sweaty, naked, aloof, out the door and down the hall into the bathroom. She tastes his flabbergasted dismay at his persistent erection despite 'domestic indoor winter', feels the snap of used latex, and hears his frustrated, fumbling bemusement while trying to find the thermostat in the dark.

They hold two conversations at once as he returns to the room, illuminated by blistering spots and diagonals from street light tunneling through gaps in mini blinds. Even as Soul reprimands her for keeping the house so cold that she could catch ill, he's half-asking, half-informing her that doing  _it_  again is an option. Longer. All night. They could ignore the world and its absurd demands and just stay the hell in bed, enjoying each other while simultaneously flipping off anything that could separate them.

She verbally assures him that the cold doesn't bother her, and silently states the impossibility of freezing to death with him around.

And he's a fire, a pillar of flame that is comfortable in the dark, stalking like a beast to the corner of the room, draped in only his skin, collecting a box of gaudy, multicolored condoms which are then deliberately set on his nightstand- within easier reach. "Don't complain when the electric bill comes in," he says, his soul dripping in heady keys and repeating only one, steadfast idea:

_"Rematch."_

"I'm not worried," she replies, terribly conscious of the arousing throb that has yet to cease for a single breath, her voice sounding far away. She tries to explain something about Havar and surplus energy, but her mouth remains shut. His infuriating, tantalizing, Cheshire grin burns her to slack-jawed ashes.

She shivers, wondering what he means by 'rematch', though not so much the what but the  _why_  (had the first time been lacking in any way?), and any embarrassment over the bond is merely a polite attempt at recovering the prudishness she normally wears: One that has since been shed like a used, outgrown skin, peeled off and discarded from writhing in his arms.

Bars of light slide up his body as he returns to bed, and she's caught in that orbit again, the bond chattering and singing the closer he approaches. He assures her that this time will be better- he knows what to do now. Which frightens her, because she can't imagine anything more intense than what has already transpired.

"Will make sure the whole city hears you this time," he warns aloud, slinking over her with shifting muscles and molten confidence. Maka tries her best not to gawk at parts of his anatomy that she's not accustomed to seeing on a regular basis- one in particular already pointing to its intended destination as he comes to hover over her. A sensual flow of dark notes is the only other hint of his intentions and what she's about to be caught up in.

Maka sinks further into the mattress under his smoldering gaze. He's  _has_  to be insane, and by the feel of the shadowy, silken silhouette resting on her belly button,  _insatiable._ Soul's combusting tongue laps at a breast with a calculating tilt to the head, as if he is tasting her for the first time. Skin on skin is different, now, like being drawn into him intravenously, replacing parts of her subconscious with his. The contact scrambles their souls, the lines separating them becoming blurred into obscurity. At his touch, Maka suddenly knows every note the bed squeaks in as well as she knows her own name. Through him, she knows how many seconds her nipple has been in his mouth, how long it's been since her last cry of pleasure, and how quickly a condom can be rolled on. Maka is intimately aware of his pride and satisfaction in seeing her naked, in his bed-

"Our bed," he corrects, teeth glinting in a smile before fading behind pursing lips that kiss her fingertips. She feels that fierce, possessive plural as strongly as he does. Us. Ours. We. Together.

He breathes a little sigh of relief or contentment or satisfaction. Soul takes her hand, running down his chest, languid, slow, gifting her with his shivers. He feels it too, the weird, almost uncomfortably addicting sensation of the circuit that completes when they touch. Maka knows his quickening breath, and something in her shifts. It pulses, awakens, shudders-

And then Soul stops breathing altogether. Her hand he has in his grasp is stuck in mid-air, halted in its descent to lower regions of his body.

Did time stop? No. He's breathing, albeit shallowly. Is she breathing? No, but that's probably the nervousness. Maka becomes excruciatingly self-conscious as he stares at her (still very brutally, helplessly, vulnerably naked) body. Soul's eyebrows perform a disappearing act.

It doesn't help that she can accurately count the seconds of his silence,  _ **thanks to him.**_

Soul curiously stares at her. He tosses his head, simultaneously blowing hair from his eyes to see her more clearly. Her heart crystallizes when he slowly, carefully, hesitantly crawls off of her as if he had just found himself sitting on top of a very angry and dangerous beast. The disconnection of skin is like a sudden draft to her senses. Maka is afraid to move out of paranoia and worry. The images she tastes from him are blurry and dim with feathers and mist.

_What the hell is he staring at?_

"...Soul?" She squeaks, though she just wants to scream to break the silence (and possibly vent some of the frustration of having her arousal abruptly discarded). Then her weapon does something that makes her want to brain him with his own scythe. Kneeling next to her, he places a hand on her breast (as causally as one puts a hand on a _doorknob_ ), and slowly blinks. The contact brings his confusion into focus, the bond warping in curiosity.

"Huh."

 _"What."_ If he doesn't give her a legitimate answer in the next seven seconds, her fist is going to meet his stupid  _face_  for getting her so wound up with anxiety and for being an idiotic  _tease._ A pregnant silence. Three breaths, and his mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Another breath and a skeptical contortion of eyebrows.

"Goin' crazy, or uhhh... you're bein' haunted by a  _ghost-bird,"_ he eventually says in an unsure voice.

No. No. She  **refuses**  this reality. She thinks she may have just experienced the best moment of her life, and now  _this._  Her fist clenches at her side, itching to fly. Maka knows he's saying words that she understands, but barring the  _crazy_  part, they simply don't make sense. "Excuse me," she tries to politely ask through gritting teeth.

Soul shrugs and shakes his head, making a wordless noise in an effort to find a better explanation. He takes his palm away, flexing his fingers in curiosity. It's only because he replaces it on her stomach and not her  _tit_  that she doesn't immediately bash his skull to the next galaxy. "When I touch you...  _wings._  And it's makin' my arm weird," he says, pulling back and staring at his street-light-dappled forearm.

"Weird? Like weird- _bad_  or-"

"No," he says, somewhat hesitant about his answer and lightly placing his fingertips on her increasingly tensing shoulders. "I think." He's awfully serene about the whole supernatural predicament.

Clearly, this is his fault.

"The hell do you want me to do? I ain't an exorcist, woman," he says calmly to her unspoken seething, keeping one hand connected to her while the other waves experimentally through formless air.

"Well you're  _something_  if you can see it," she hisses, the 'like crazy' clearly relayed to him over the bond. It's awkward and nerve-wracking when he can stare at something she apparently can't see.

Soul pulls away again, swatting at her panicking emotions on the bond. "You're not dying, calm down. ...Plus it's kinda cool. Touch me," he says distractedly.

What? Maka's heart stutters, flustered at the request. He raises an eyebrow at her. He's naked, and she can't stop herself from glancing at a beam of street light parallel to the shadows of his crotch. Touch him  _where?_  A single puff of silent laughter shifts his mess of hair. "You can touch me there if you  _want,_  but uhh," he smirks, holding out his closest hand for her.

He calls her a pervert when she timidly touches his palm with a finger. "Y-You know what? We were  _just about to_... urgh! Is it still there," she asks, though she doesn't need to. She can tell through the bond that he's watching her invisible wings. Her feet twitch in anxiety, tangling in bedsheets. Soul stares at a spot just to the side of her shoulder, shaded red eyes boring a curious hole into nothing.

Maka contemplates how hard she would need to chop him in order to make him regain his sanity, because she'd much rather accept Soul being crazy than having her body be possessed by  **avian poltergeists.** To make matters even more confusing, Soul's attention is abruptly ripped from her 'ghost-bird' and directed to his bedroom door. His hand grips around her wrist tightly, the bond giving off the impression of raised hackles and bared teeth for a split-second before relaxing again.

Maka quietly sits up, the term 'weirded out' becoming less and less efficient. "Are you sure  _I'm_  the one being possessed?" she remarks at his increasingly alienating behavior.

He totally ignores her question. "Blair's home."

She notes that he's right, glancing in the general direction of the front door and sensing out the familiar wavelength of their feline roommate. She hadn't heard anything, but maybe Soul had heard the front door somehow, with his freaky hearing. She slides her wrist out of her weapon's grasp, wanting to feel blood in her fingers again.

He looks lost for a moment, whipping his head around to look at her, then back to the door. She complains when he grasps her wrist again, and proceeds to stare at her like he's only just realized she's existed. Irked and unsure of what the hell to think anymore, Maka is displeased that he's still devastatingly attractive no matter how much she wants to check him into a mental institution.

"Not crazy," Soul assures her with an amused grin, picking up on her skepticism, his attitude making another abrupt shift.

"What a relief?" Maka pulls her hand away again, reaching behind them to grab a pillow to hold in her arms and over her naked chest. Her nipples are as hard as diamonds, and she's going to blame it on the coldness of the room and not being half-aroused, half-frightened, and one-hundred percent self-conscious in front of someone whose cheese has slid off his cracker. What's the protocol for handing in a weapon that's lost his marbles? Does she have to turn him over to Stein for study or can she take him straight to Nygus for medication?

The glinting smile on his face is damn near predatory. He's  _ecstatic,_ his giddiness almost contagious from the sheer amount battering her over the bond between them. _._  He leans close to her, the mattress shifting in a jumble of A's and F-flats and worn cotton sheets. Suddenly in her face, Maka's half-arousal quickly waxes to full, despite herself. "I caught your radar," he says with a sharky smirk, burning hands sliding up her arms and shoulders, coming to tangle in the ends of her hair.

" _I can see my meister's soul,"_ he whispers to her, heady music enveloping her like a warm blanket.

Only faintly registering the sensation of his lips on her neck, Maka articulately announces,  **"What."**  Without warning, he tackles her, suddenly wanting to do  _it_ again, ... _again._  He bombards her with images of grigori souls and ghost-like wings. "Wait! Soul- what do you mean you-"

"Forget the city. Gonna make you  _wake the dead,"_ he says, pulling her pillow away from her body and replacing it with his chest.

She can feel his sudden inspiration. Soul makes sure she's absolutely aware of how pleased he is, and that she knows the names of every note he mercilessly transposes from her skin. Maka tries to remind him that Blair is home, but language fails her.

* * *

She's had this moment before.

Maka squints critically at herself in the bathroom mirror. The remains of last night's dissected shirt is draped around her shoulders. She decides that 'sexual epiphanies' are a load of crap. Her skin is not glowing. Her eyes do not shine with greater knowledge. Her hair is an unattractive, limp fiasco. In fact, the only proof that last night had even happened is the minor twinge between her hips and the gigantic mark on the side of her neck, which- she notes with a bland sense of foreboding- looks very similar to the shape of a hand grenade.

That guy is so  _dead._  Her dress for tonight is strapless. She's going to have to use an absurd amount of makeup (that she doesn't own) just to mask it, and probably wear her hair down for good measure. Possibly indefinitely.

She tilts her head to one side, observing Soul's signature with a blush. Maybe Blair could help conceal it. The cat surely had enough cosmetics to start a small business chain. But then Blair would pry every miniscule tidbit of information out of her about last night. And maybe this morning...

Maka had found it severely difficult to keep track of the rest of the world's time while in her weapon's bed.

She admits to her reflection that, okay,  _maybe_  there's a slight glow in her facial area, but only because her memory is stuck in a constant loop filled with everything about Soul that makes her heart race. That, and the phrase 'pushing the envelope' keeps surfacing whenever she bends or moves suddenly, reminding her of how they had done so, and in  _earnest._

The shower is a good distraction. She'd woken up with sore legs and a grimy feeling of sweat residue, and despite the fact that it's only a little after six in the morning, she just hadn't been able to go back to sleep no matter how tightly Soul had clutched her and grumbled for her to stay in bed. Her heart had begun to race, and didn't feel the least bit sleepy as a result, with his naked body pressed along hers.

Plus, there's an eternal, industrial-strength slipperiness along her inner thighs that she needs to wash away with haste, because she can't think about its source without feeling a little lightheaded. Stepping into the warm spray of the shower, Maka grabs a fluffy loofah that hangs off a hook crookedly glued to the wall. With water gradually weighing her hair down her back, she finds herself unable to remember what she's trying to do, because all she can think is how  _Soul wants to marry her._

Well, she thinks he does. He hadn't actually come out and said those exact words, but between the bond and the subject of conversation at the time, it's kind of hard to see it any other way, ...right? She's excited. She's terrified. She doesn't want Soul to be anywhere but right next to her, so an eventual marriage  _seems_  logical. Is she allowed to even think about these things so soon? She didn't have the best examples of marriage and child-rearing while growing up, but is she allowed to hope?

She tries to swallow the unsure heart that's managed to travel up her throat. It remains stubbornly lodged. Maybe she shouldn't assume she had understood him clearly. Not for something like this. She should ask him directly, and lay all the cards on the table. She'd walk right up to him, and demand to know if he really... really meant to say...

Maka shoves the loofah in her face and repeatedly tells herself to calm down. She's going to give herself a heart attack. Or at least pass out, because she can't breathe properly. She just needs to be able to think clearly and rationally again, which is going to involve getting the body wash, squeezing some on the sponge, and washing away the dried sweat and slobber (and the  _substance_  lingering between her legs) from her body.

" _Condom lube,"_  Soul sleepily offers over the bond, indifferent to her embarrassment. And then the rungs on the shower curtain clack and slide across the rail.

Maka makes a deranged noise as she sharply inhales, dropping the loofah and backing up against the tiled wall opposite Soul. She'd been so lost in her thoughts, _she hadn't noticed him come in at all._ Everything in her body irrationally screams to hide her nakedness from him, so she scrambles forward again to try and tug the shower curtain out of his grasp to force it shut. The cheap vinyl creaks in complaint, refusing to budge.

Soul lazily eyes her through a sleep-ruffled mane. "Knocked, even. You take showers at the weirdest times," he unhappily drawls.

"I think I can take showers whenever I feel li-  **what are you doing,"**  she exclaims while he completely ignores her protests and yanks the curtain further open. He isn't. He  _is._ He's already seen everything, but she's simply not prepared to face him yet as he steps into the tub, sporting the utmost of  _naked_  (had he walked down the hallway like that? Again?), and all she can do is stupidly backpedal and splutter.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Soul asks, pulling the curtain closed and returning the shower into a semblance of semi-darkness. It helps her nerves a little, but not by much.

"Being  **perverted."**

Soul, distracted by water, glares at the shower head as it sprays his side, the bond loud with his displeasure at how eight-thousand-friggen'-degrees too cold it is. He proceeds to crank the water to damn near  _boiling._  He sleepily looks over at her again. "Then that's what I'm doing," he says dryly, tipping a bottle of shampoo sitting on a shelf towards himself with a finger, distracting her with muscles and... and-

"Pretty sure m'not the only perverted person in here, what with your brain being loud. As usual."

Maka turns to the side and attempts to melt the shower curtain with her face.

"What's the big deal? ...Don't even know how many times I've seen you naked, anyhow."

She hunches her shoulders and whips her head around, aghast. "Not  _all_ of those times were voluntary," she retorts. Soul grimaces back at her, and she finds his face slightly pinked behind half-wet hair. Maka notes with surprise that he's having almost as much of a dilemma not knowing what to do with his eyes.

"At least you didn't fall this time," he grumbles. Soul concentrates on pouring her shampoo into his hand. She doesn't mention that her routine always starts with washing her body first- she's too anxious and unable to handle the thought of  _showering with her weapon_  to break the silence.

It takes everything in her body to ignore the reflex of hiding her nudity to turn back and face him. She knows wanting to shy away is probably a stupid reflex, especially after everything they've done together, but somehow, being in the shower seems too much of a personal, secluded ritual. With sloppily gathered pride and courage, Maka holds her ground, her hands fisting at her sides as Soul casually moves closer- as if hijacking her shower at six in the morning is completely natural and he  _isn't_  half-aroused. His palm wetly smacks on the top of her head, the sound of the shampoo almost comical.

With the connection of his skin, the bond swells with the clarity of which she has become both accustomed and greedily expectant. His touch makes several things apparent in the span of half a breath. When Soul awakened, he had found her missing. This had not settled well with him. He really isn't invading her shower to be perverted- he just wanted to be near her. She's welcome to tell him to leave, but he doesn't think he remembers how.

She feels like an awkward little girl being bathed by an even more awkward boy- which, as she thinks on it further, is a fairly accurate description.

"...I-I can do this myself."  
"Mm."

He seems to be touching her for the sake of touching. The large hands rubbing strawberry-scented shampoo into her scalp silently reassure her of things left unsaid. It's kind of stupid being so absurdly nervous around him. Maka's racing heart begins to calm, reminding her that this is Soul with her. And even if, apart from explosive-shaped hickeys, there are no differences in her appearance after having lost the last bit of her childhood, she is still inexplicably bonded to him.

They perform a very grace-less shuffle to swap places so she can rinse her hair. Even then, he doesn't leave her- tipping her jaw up with one hand and running the fingers of the other through suds and steaming spray. It's loud with water drumming on her scalp and shoulders, streaming down her limp arms to dully patter on the fiberglass of the tub. The shower is still hotter than she'd prefer, but it feels good on the goosebumps that crawl down her spine as his fingers press into the back of her neck. Maka, with face tilted toward the ceiling, watches misty steam billowing upwards, shining in the yellow-tinged bathroom light that peeks over the top of the shower curtain. She glances down her cheekbones through humid eyelashes at her silent weapon.

Hooded blood stares right back at her, condensed crimson and burgundy almost imperceptibly imploring. Her shampoo has long since been rinsed away, but his hand still pets, still caresses, even as she drops her chin down to a normal height and takes a shuddering breath. The bond is shifting with many things, but none of them are concrete enough to identify as they continue their quiet staring contest. Soul's hand absently moves through her hair, down her jaw and to the juncture of neck and shoulder. He gently rubs his fingers into her continually soaked skin, massaging and kneading and nudging her closer.

His eyes loose focus- or maybe shift into a more intense one- and she watches him watching her soul.

Something surges within him. All the uncoordinated feelings between them become bundled and rerouted, so smoothly amassed into a familiar rhythm that she almost doesn't feel it happening. But she's leaning forward, or maybe he is, almost coincidentally but very  _not,_ and when they come together his mouth is warm and wet and his taste is thick with savored urgency.

" _I meant it, you know."_

Resonating comes so easily to them, now. It's something more deeply ingrained than muscle-memory or habit, on par with breathing or blinking. It's automatic and necessary. Maka's arms slide around his waist while they simply kiss, and she feels herself being tugged away from reality, following a quiet, disembodied voice. The sounds of water and the sensation of Soul's hands on her body are distant and only partially acknowledged. She feels heavy drapes at her fingers, and she walks forward into them, lush fabric swirling around her body while she follows the beckoning pull of her partner.

" _I mean it."_

She doesn't remember there being so many layers of thick velvet to go through, but her feet eventually find marble-like tiles. They're warm under her toes. It's darker than usual, and she squints, looking for the familiar gramophone or grand piano. She wonders why she's barefoot.

" _What you do to me, what we've done together-"_

Maka strides forward into the darkest of rooms, led by the tinkling sound of high sopranos. As she walks, familiar candles brighten on their tall posts as she nears both them and him. His fingers peck out notes in an order that is unfamiliar, but in a language she almost understands now.

" _-is permanent."_

Her heart beats so rapidly, she's amazed the room isn't echoing with its relentless thump-thumping. Soul is seated predictably at the piano bench, and now he turns, swapping his legs to the other side to face her in an almost-excited, boyish movement. His suit jacket bunches up to one side when he rests an elbow behind him on the glossy surface of the instrument. He gives her a peculiar once-over.

"Whats this?" He asks, as if he hadn't just been claiming his steadfast, eternal loyalty to her. "I like it."

Maka blushes and looks down at herself in the flickering candlelight. Strangely, she's not presenting in the Black Dress, or even her usual Spartoi uniform. Her body is draped in a blurry facsimile of the dress she had purchased for the formal. An inky shade of jade, the fabric wraps down her torso and flares out, flickering around her knees like an incorporeal petticoat. A plain, black sash separates the skirting from the strapless top- her chest encased in some cross between sea shells and origami meant to enhance her figure though she thinks it only emphasizes her lack.

She wonders why she's wearing it. She wonders if it had been on her mind that much. She hadn't liked the shoes she bought to go with the dress (they'd been painful!), so she guesses that explains her bare feet.

Soul gives her an eyebrow. "You were  _afraid_  of wearing this?" he asks, referring to her comment about dress shopping last night. She mentally hedges around the idea of feeling like a plank in sheep's clothing. He scoffs. Maka glowers and moves her hair aside, finding the locks free and not up in her usual style.

"This is also a problem," she elaborates, indicating his oral handiwork on her neck.

He chokes down a laugh behind his hand, and then smugly adjusts his tie. "Sorry," he offers, clearly not apologetic at all. He gestures for her, and she moves to stand before him. Soul pulls her into his lap, her dress making a crinkling symphony of taffeta and crinoline. "I still like it," he says against her collar, wrapping his arms behind her and running his fingers along her exposed shoulders, playing with her hair. "I like this. And this," he murmurs, tracing his hands down her sides and hips. "This especially," and he snakes his palms up and underneath her dress with a sanguine grin.

Maka squawks, trembling and blushing, her hands gripping Soul's shoulders in surprise. It's still awkward to genuinely let go of anxiety, having her weapon's hands so intimately familiar with her body. Particularly when she feels his intense and immediate pleasure when his fingertips reach the hem of her underwear.

"Ah- you remembered," he quietly says, looking up at her. His serrated smile glints in the flickering fire. Her eyes widen in horror- the side-tie panties she's supposed to wear in accordance to their agreement have also managed to appear in the Black Room. She curses her subconscious while his fingertips playfully nudge the hidden string bows. "Hmm- it  _is_  technically Friday... What'd you get me?"

She had forgotten about the cufflinks. Heart thundering in her chest and overcome with nervous suspicion, Maka's hand runs down one of his suit-covered shoulders and gently tugs an arm out from her skirt. Inspecting his wrist, she sees a glint of gold in candlelight. Subconscious self-betrayal strikes again! Has she unknowingly brought  _everything_ that's been on her mind the past week here? She's afraid of what else might have followed her into the Black Room without her notice.

"What," Soul asks, confused. He glances at his hand and then back at her. Then quickly back at his hand, abruptly noticing the small bass clef adorning the cuff of his red dress shirt. "Wha- where'd this come... from?"

She jerks, tickled, when he hurriedly pulls his other hand away from the sensitive skin of her hip. Soul ignores the gentle  _thwap_ of her hand on his head. He lets out a small laugh, surprise wafting over her. "Heh. Cool. These are out there?" He looks up at her with a lopsided grin.

"Yeah. They're real," she admits in his lap, resisting the urge to twiddle her fingers like a middle school girl. The cufflinks are still sitting in their case somewhere in her room, where she had last looked at them and wondered if it was too weird to be basically be giving her partner jewelry. "You like them? Er. You  _better_ like them. Getting them was a pain." Her heart stumbles over a gigantic, innocent thought that juts out of the depths of her nervousness. Jewelry. The ridiculous image of herself kneeling with a box of cufflinks coming full circle to implied marriage proposals causes her to freeze solid.

Soul begins to shake, and then she realizes, with a frown, that he's trying very hard not to crack up. "Mm," he hums with a close-lipped smile, leaning forward to leave kisses on her exposed skin.  _"I do._  Very much."

She's going to die. Even as she becomes incensed at his laughing at her expense, everything he says makes her throat go dry and the insides of her ears steam. He buries his face into her neck, snorting. "Black*Star can be my maid of honor," he manages to say before his voice dissolves into wheezes of laughter.

Maka digs around her awareness to find her physical body and, once she regains her bearings, attempts to punch Soul in the kidney. But they're resonating, so he knows it's coming, and his feet squeak in the tub as he dodges, one hand still on her shoulder to keep them connected. He catches her wrist and pulls her out of the shower's spray.

" _Now, now, it's not all a joke,"_  he thinks. The amusement he channels is so thick she can taste it in the back of her scowling mouth, but he  _is_  attempting to placate her. They do the awkward dance again and he presses her against the far wall of the shower. One of his hands still connected to her wrist, Soul drizzles an obscene amount of body soap on her chest. She gets the feeling that he likes it when she's angry, which helps his cause very little.  _"Though, wouldn't be caught dead in a dress."_

Maka sighs exasperatedly, even as she begins to shiver at the way he uses her previously discarded loofah to benignly spread a lacy filigree of lather across her breasts and down her stomach. He leans closer, legs bumping and sliding with hers. "You, though," he says lowly, words rough around the edges but content smoothly falling into her ears, "-in white? I look forward to it." Soul soaps down her abdomen and carefully lower. Her lungs struggle, the saturated, steamy air feeling too thick to breathe in.

Her attention is drawn back to the Black Room, where his laughter has stopped and his tongue has started. She's irritated that he keeps pulling her focus to different places, like she's caught between two impatient and needy suitors, both overflowing with lung-crushing, disastrously wonderful implications. Her eyes dart to the closest candle, staring into its flickering blaze. Her voice wavers from several causes that she can't find the urge to separate and examine. "Soul. You... you can't back out of this, understand?"

He purrs his assent into her skin, arms wrapping tightly around her. " _Yes, my meister."_

"Not ever."  
"I know."  
"Not even if... when Shinigami takes you-"  
" _You don't have to worry about that anymore."_

It's in the way he says (or feels) it- so full of faith and conviction that his words manage to confuse her- and she leans back away from him to read his face and thoughts. But he only has one thing on his mind: To reach up and connect their lips, because he feels that if he isn't kissing her pliant mouth right now, she'll  _never_  understand no matter how many times he tells her.

Maka can't help but return his insistent kiss. Soul's hands roam down her body, tracing the edge of her breasts, her ribs, her waist, her hips through the fabric of the dress. She can feel his excitement beginning to grow, both in his lap and through their bond. When he mouths to her jaw and pinches it lightly between his teeth, a gasp escapes her. She shuts her mouth hurriedly, trying to keep her voice locked away.

"No. No. Don't do that," he says disapprovingly, snaking his hands underneath her dress, burning skin dancing towards her inner thighs. She whimpers when his thumbs press against her panties. "I want to hear you."

"S-stop," she quietly pleads, more from embarrassment than actually wanting his familiar touch to end. Her hands clutch his suit tightly. "The demon..."

Because, where  _is_  that guy, anyway? Things are strange- it's darker than usual, her dress is different, and there's no one snickering in the background. She suddenly feels self-conscious, glancing around for a glimpse of the red-skinned parasite hiding somewhere and watching them. It's hard to concentrate, though- Soul's hands are persistent.

"He's pouting somewhere, probably. He doesn't like you," she feels him smirk against her skin. "My Anti-Demon."

"Aunty?"  
"Demon. He's definitely not gonna like the music."

"What m- _ahh,"_ she exclaims, fingernails lightly teasing her through thin fabric. Maka gives up trying to figure out what the crap he's talking about- she can't focus when he's touching her like this. She whimpers when his right thumb quietly slides underneath her underwear.

" _Better,"_  Soul praises.  _"Louder. As loud as you need."_

But there are more pressing matters with her real body. Maka is immediately conscious of the shower, bathroom light entering her eyes and the sound of pelting water waking her ears. She notices, belatedly, that she's moaning. Soul demands her attention, sliding his body against her soap-covered one, his skin a slick combination of fire and sinew. She's intensely aware of a part of him, even warmer than the rest of his body and the steaming spray, snugly sliding between their stomachs. His hair tangles with hers as his tongue lightly plays with her lips. He shushes her, which is initially confusing because he's urging the complete opposite in another reality.

The weapon pulls away from her mouth, innocently handing her the bubbly sponge. "My turn?

She finds that it's difficult to stand without his body holding her to the wall. Her knees are weak and apparently more closely connected to the Black Room than the rest of her; the things he's doing to her next to a somewhat-imaginary piano threaten to buckle them. Soul places a hand on either side of her on the wall, carefully keeping in contact with her skin. She shakily applies soap to his chest.

"Are you gonna make it?" His voice is amused, but the hoarseness speaks of how their resonating is affecting him. It's clear that they should never attempt to do this while in the midst of a battle, because they would render each other jelly-legged and stupid. She grazes a ticklish spot in retaliative reply. He cringes and playfully huffs.

Her eyes fall down with trails of lather, watching his chest expand as he breathes, and further down, finally unable to look away from the hardened proof of Soul's attraction. She switches the loofah numbly to her other hand and gingerly touches his erection before she can even think to stop herself. She's fascinated by the fragile, silken texture- how feverish and impatient and thick it feels, how it's actually a part of Soul's body and that it had somehow been accepted inside her own. Willingly.

Very willingly.

"Maka," he rumbles, sounding anxious and unsure. So she glides her soapy fingers down his length, watching his eyes slide shut while he swallows a moan, this time.

Elsewhere, or else _when_ , her hands press heavily on keys for support, body bent over the piano.

"Maka. Can we..? Again." The skirt of her dress is bunched to her waist and one side of her panties are untied. A finger wetly traces around her opening. His face nudges away the hair draping down the back of her neck so he can nip the sensitive skin there. A long finger slides in and pushes her voice from her mouth.  _"I want so much. What should I do?"_ He asks, almost nervous of his own greed, but still thoroughly enjoying himself as he strokes her. The candles burn hot against her face; brightly, as if they are connected to her mounting pleasure.

She shudders, mewling into glossy obsidian that fogs with her humid breath. That's when she notices it- a weird group of bubbled-up enamel on the surface of the piano that mists up as she pants. The paint is peeling away, forming little craters that reveal a hint of wood grain underneath. Even though it's unrelated, she's reminded of smeared lipstick, and reaches over- mindlessly through a haze of pleasure- to brush her fingertips on the rocky surface. 

The effect is immediate.

" **Ah-"**

Maka flings her hand hurriedly away from the peeling enamel, and yelps in surprise when Soul wildly jerks as if he's not in control of his body.

"Wait. Wait," he says in a breathy voice, his hand stilling inside of her. She's completely confused and rubber-kneed, swamped by an indescribable sensation that he's feeling. His free hand slides down her arm and grasps her her fingers. Maka numbly watches as he inhales unsteadily and moves her palm back to the surface of the instrument. He hisses when he presses it flush against the spots.

"Is this- are you okay?" She asks worriedly. "Soul-" she tries to say, but her voice morphs into a yowl she can't control. He's begun to move his finger again, stirring her up with growing intensity. She can only writhe against the keys, which loudly roar under flailing body.

" _They're burns,"_ he thinks, bond focused on their joined hands. " _From the blood. When I was with Stein."_ And he relays parts of his memory- a tidal wave of inky insanity that floods the Black Room, black blood sizzling into the instrument while he had waited in desperation until she arrived with reinforcements. "You're healing them.  _It feels_ _ **good."**_

His hair tickles the side of her face as he leans over her and kisses her cheekbone. She shivers despite being confused and still worried about his bizarre reactions to what could essentially be a  _wound on his soul._  Soul leaves her hand on the burns, which might be faintly tingling under her skin though she can't be sure. He wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her close, humming distractedly into her hair and neck.

"Can I, Maka? I want to feel you again-" he asks her- chastely kissing her spine while his finger continues to draw more wetness from her body- but it's not like there's a single part of her that can possibly say no. His soul seems to relish her touch, the candles surrounding them crackling ablaze. Their flames stretch long and tall, burning and smoking tips reaching for the murky depths of the limitless ceiling.

She's done this before, in a different reality. She's been in front of him like this, trembling in need and impatience and uncertainty, but this time her curiosity will be sated. This time, his hardened need is allowed entrance. The feeling of him bare and unsheathed is warm and different- how far he's able to sink inside when she tilts her hips toward him mind-numbing. Deeply enough for his unzipped slacks to rub against the backs of her thighs. Deeply enough to be burned by his body. Deeply enough for her voice to cry out and make the piano hum and echo with her volume.

" _Do you know? Do you understand?"_

Her dress slides noisily against the piano as he drives into her. Soul grips her hips still as he glides out, pressing her tightly against him as he plunges forward again. Whatever it is she's doing to the piano has absolutely ignited him. The feeling of being sucked into his soul is present again, dominating her senses.

" _I don't think you get it yet."_

His meister. His demonsbane. His love. These thoughts and many other things cascade from him and into her so much that her real body starts to slide down a shower wall. Her reality is split between two worlds, making her head spin. She finds Soul with his head pressed to the side of hers, his choking groans becoming louder. Her weapon quivers and pants, subjected to her lathery hand rubbing his pulsing cock.

Maka makes an effort to re-lock her knees to keep from falling, but it doesn't work very well. Some part of her (she's not sure where or when or which), is  _coming_ , and she is so overwhelmed that she simply can't stand. Her feet slide out from under her, and Soul half-complains when she stops moving her hand, then half-laughs because he knows exactly what her problem is. He shakily catches her under her arms and helps her sit on the floor of the bathtub, leaning on the wall. Maka absently notes that the water is pretty much pelting her in the face, but she's too busy trying to catch her breath to care. She thinks she feels a kiss, unsure from which body of Soul's it had come from, before he lets her go.

Resonance ends with the departure of his skin, which feels a lot like suddenly ripping off a band-aid. Soul frenziedly points the shower head in another direction to keep from drowning them both and wobbly kneels before her, hand absently clutching his aching erection.

Maka's focus begins to regroup, no longer needing to be in two places at once. Soul grins from ear to ear, hair dripping and diluting the soap still on his body. He's so damn smug. "Sorry. Well," he breathes, sucking in air between his teeth, "-not really but, you okay?" Her body tingles with both lingering pleasure and irritation.

She does not like being interrupted.

"Woah- wha- you don't have to- _ahh~"_  He lurches forward, resting his weight on his hands. Head bowed, he shudders as she picks up where she had left off, stroking and tugging his heated flesh. "...Okay," he cooperates, more than willing and somewhat desperate for release. The angle of her wrist is different this time, and she gauges Soul's reaction when she changes the splay of her fingers.

" **Nhg!"**

Maka's heart stutters, alarmed at how loudly his voice echoes in the bathroom."Sh-shhh, Soul!  _Quiet._ "

"There.  _ **There,"**_ he pants, trying to keep his urgent voice low. He puts a hand to her shoulder, squeezing direly. "For the love of-  _don't stop-"_

Every nerve in her body painfully twinges at his words. "Like this?" She quietly asks, and he nods with a distressed hum, wet hair hiding his face. His head comes to rest between her breasts, his breath puffing rapidly and unevenly against her skin. Hands and knees squeak on the wet bottom of the bathtub as he starts to grind into her hand. She applies slightly more pressure, which the bond reacts to favorably.

Maka watches her weapon writhe, and she's somewhat hypnotized and heavily aroused. She thinks her true Albarn colors might be showing. Is this what he looks like when he's  _inside her?_  When he's about to..?

"Makaah, you're... I'm!" The bond spikes where Soul's harried words fail, and she watches, or rather experiences him orgasm- his teeth bared in a tight clench as he tries not to moan too loudly, cheek pressed painfully against her sternum. His body goes rigid, and he explosively spills his release across her arm and stomach.

Dear Shinigami, why is this so  _satisfying?_

Maka's heart pounds painfully in her chest. Soul let's out a tired hiss, shifting the hand on her shoulder to her own, giving her fingers a long, meaningful squeeze before urging her to let go.

Oh! Oh. "Sorry," she blurts, releasing her hand. He seems to be able to breathe more easily once she does.

He scoffs against her, assuring her that she should never be sorry for  _that._  Ever. The bond speaks of how tired he is, and how he's probably cheating death in some strange (and admittedly amazing) way by having so many orgasms in so little time allotted.  _"I'm_  sorry. Made a mess. C'mon."

She hates that she can't stop grinning, but they manage to finally finish their shower without doing anything else significantly perverted. The hot water is mostly gone, and Soul half-heartedly complains, shivering. His teeth clatter as he wraps himself in a towel.

Maybe he really is made of fire.

Or is sick, Maka realizes suddenly in the middle of tying the belt of her (his...her) robe. He gives her a perplexed look while she jerks him around to face her and abruptly places the back of her hand on his forehead. He is a little warm, but then again they're in a steamy bathroom and have been doing...things.

She asks anyway. "Are you feeling alright?"

According to their bond, he is one-hundred percent flabbergasted. "A-are you serious?" His averts his gaze to the side, mouth finding his trademark stash of imaginary lemons as he grimaces. "...Haven't felt this good in...  **never."** Soul's eyes return to hers, giving her a pointed look, openly begging her not to make him elaborate what should be clearly obvious.

Her ears start doing that steaming thing again, but she's saved by the growl of his stomach. Soul bites the inside of his cheek. "Okay, might be starving to death," he admits. He elaborates, smugly, through Soul Chain,  _"...Burned a lot of calories, you know."_

Maka smacks him with the end of the terry cloth belt of her robe.

 

* * *

Blair's ears flick in her direction as Maka quietly closes her bedroom door behind her. Dark fur melds into the shadows of her bed's comforter in the early morning light. The cat yawns with a brief gleam of fangs and tongue. "Morning," she says, stretching her front paws in front of her and arching her back.

Maka grimaces. She was trying to be quiet, but she'd apparently failed. Feeling guilty, she admits the situation is helpful, because she needs to ask for the cat's help to cover up the darkish smear of weapon-inflicted hand grenade on the side of her neck. "Sorry to wake you up, Blair."

A puff of ozone and the cat becomes human-esque, using long nails to ruffle violet hair. "Which time?" she yawns again, but not without a sly smile shot in her direction.

Maka chokes on any and all sorts of apologies for a full seven seconds before holding her tongue and bashfully turning around to flip on the light switch and dig through her dresser for clothes to wear. Now she feels even more guilty about requesting the cat's assistance. Her hands squeeze the life out of a neatly folded pair of worn socks.

"So, did Bu-tan's gift get put to good use?" Blair asks lightly, idly raking her fingers through the ends of Maka's clean, damp hair, fussing with the tangles out of cat-like habit.

She shoots the cat a miffed scowl. "Not like we needed-" she starts to retort, and then awkwardly swallows the rest of her words. Actually, they had needed condoms if they wanted to do what they'd done... responsibly.

What she and Soul Eater Evans did together approximately nine hours and fifty minutes ago, in his bed (..their bed), twice. She wants to write down the date on a calendar and dip it in gold to preserve it forever. She wants to stick her head in her underwear drawer and violently shut it to destroy her face which can't keep a calm complexion for more than twenty minutes at a time.

Judging by the knowing, golden gaze Blair is giving her through her vanity mirror, the cat can probably hear the loud swallow Maka makes while trying to casually fish around for her black, side-tie panties in a sea of generic white cotton and thick boot socks.

" _T-t-thanks,"_ Maka leaks out the side of her mortified mouth.

Blair lets out a single, perverse giggle. "Just trying to be supportive!"

Maka gives the cat a bemused look through the mirror. She opens her mouth to try to explain that peoples' sex lives are a matter of privacy, even if her roommate means well, but she shuts it again. She doubts any cat would understand the concept of 'personal space'.

Her doubts are justified when Blair yanks the collar of Maka's robe to one side and appraises the mark on her neck. Maka scrambles to keep enough fabric on her chest to cover her breasts.

"Ooo? Maka-chan looks like she was mauled by a bear."

With a groan, she corrects under her breath, "...Sharkbear."

Blair's tail merely curls from one side to the other when the two females hear Soul fail to hide his cackling from down the hallway.

* * *

After some squirming, low-brow comments, and a lot of sexual advice that she really could have lived happily without, Maka dresses in a rush, eager to get Soul and go grab breakfast and have a  _normal conversation._ Walking to her weapon's door, she lightly touches the side of her neck with her fingertips, not liking the heavy feeling of makeup on her skin. She tries to ingrain the idea in her mind that she shouldn't touch it. Repeating this thought in her head, she opens the door, and immediately forgets what she was thinking about.

Two things are wrong. The first being Soul staring intently at the floor for no reason she can discern. The second being her weapon still in the nude, even though they've been out of the shower for at least half an hour.

"WHAT-" she blurts out, but that's all she can manage to say. Maka damns how easily his scar gives her eyes a path to follow over his body, down and across his chest, then bouncing her gaze off his hip and directly to his-

Ceiling. She is studying his ceiling, and stumbling into his room to hurriedly shut the door behind her. She tries to navigate his cluttered boy-space by stubbing her toes on unknown objects towards his dresser. She has to find Soul some boxers, or pants, or she'll settle for a  _sock_ if it'll help her regain her pathetic composure.

"Soul. Why are you n-," she stops herself mid-question, knowing answer to 'why are you naked' would be probably something smartassed along the lines of 'because I'm not wearing any clothes, Maka'. She revises her question. "Why are you staring at the floor?"

His voice tinged with distraction, he states, "...I can see the neighbors."

Maka grits her teeth and pulls out everything in the drawer she has open, not caring whatsoever that it's two pairs of jeans, eleven shirts, and nothing resembling underwear. "Well it's a good thing they can't see you!" she replies, throwing the clothes in his face and praying her flush doesn't melt the makeup from her neck.

* * *

The novelty of being able to see anyone's soul without needing to touch her has appeared to have dissipated. And for this, she thanks all that is normal and  _not dangling like a noodle,_ even if her partner seems to have traded distracted amazement for sour grumpiness. Soul shades his eyes from half of the restaurant, as if blocking out the other patrons from his peripheral will really help him.

He turns to her in their shared booth, squinting like the restaurant is too bright for his eyes. "How do you deal with this every day?"

Maka shrugs, squeezing a slice of lemon into her glass of water. "I got used to it. I don't notice it most of the time."

Her partner's face scrunches with distaste. "'Don't notice'? They're everywhere!"

"They've always been there," she replies, amused. "Do you notice your clothes on your skin all day? You only feel them when you're thinking about them." When Soul gives her a blank look, she adds, "Well, maybe that's a bad example, Mister Nudist."

Soul slumps lower into the booth like a pouting child, blowing her comment away with a sigh forced between his lips. "Wearing pants doesn't give me a headache," he grumbles. Their server, who presents them their breakfast order, gives Soul a confused glance, but doesn't comment on their conversation, only asking if they require anything else.

What a trooper.

"We're good, thanks," Maka politely smiles, mostly in apology on behalf of their conversation's weirdness, and then frowns at Soul. His headache faintly echoes to her, and she tries to gently push it away far enough that it will stop bugging them both. "...Maybe we shouldn't go to the formal tonight, if it's bothering you that much."

He blinks, and seems to contemplate the idea, which makes him scowl even further. With another sigh, he sits back up properly in the booth and unwraps his silverware from a napkin. "Naw, I'll go." And then, before she can protest, "What'd you order, again? It looks good..."

Maka looks down at her plate. "Um. Veggie omelet." Knowing it's not exactly up his culinary alley, she skeptically offers a bite. "..Want some?"

"Kinda," he mumbles, looking equally wary. Maka uses her fork and beats down the feeling that everyone in the establishment is staring and getting physically ill from how unnaturally cute Soul looks being fed. Luckily, the moment is short lived, because he slaps his napkin to his mouth and groans.

"Dirt."  
"What?"  
" **Dirt."**  
"Oh. I ordered extra mushrooms-"

Maka bites down a laugh as she watches her partner try to 'wash' away the taste of mushrooms by scrubbing his tongue with a slice of bacon, and then gives up trying to stop when he stares at her omelet again.

"More?"

"Absolutely not," he says, but uses his own fork to try another bite again. "This is awful."

"Then quit eating it," she exclaims, worried that he's going to finish her breakfast (and not even enjoy it). She steals a piece of bacon in retaliation.

"Blugh. You and your dad, I swear."

Just in what way is she like her father? While Maka chokes and splutters, Soul elaborates for her while continuing to eat what is apparently his least favorite food. "Yeah, he ate a sandwich that was piled this high with assdirt and … oh damn," he interrupts himself suddenly, looking at her with a grimace. "Tell you Head Skull-Cheese talked to me yesterday?"

She leans away with a confused face, trying to comprehend what he's talking about, because one second he's  _comparing her to her father,_  and the next he's spouting complete gibberish.  **"What?** I mean, who?" She coughs, suddenly hating bacon. She swallows painfully, sorting out memory- reverb images of Shinigami-sama in a glass-paneled door. Her stomach plummets below their booth. "Don't tell me that's another name for-"

"Black Star's term, not mine."  
"You didn't call him that to his  _face,_ did you?"

Soul scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Of course not. Who do you take me for? Even thanked him for the bike, thank you very much."

It's only a fleeting thought, but she gives her own thanks to the heavens- her partner has a bit of politeness in there somewhere.

The weapon bristles and scowls at her. "I heard that."

Maka sheepishly waves off his irritation and tries to steer the conversation back on course. "So was that all you talked about? The bike? The mission, maybe?" She then curiously watches Soul bite the inside of his cheek and stare intently at his plate of eggs and bacon.

"No," he says. "We talked about you, actually. Well, guess he did most of the talking. And he was cryptic 'bout it, too," he ends with a grumble, putting his fork down and bringing up his emptied hand to forcefully rub his forehead.

She blinks rapidly, wondering what on earth they could have been talking about. Her stomach plummets beyond their booth and clear past the foundations of the restaurant. "Oh no. Was he disappointed about the cheating with Soul Sway thing?"

Soul's glance flings from his palm to her face with bewilderment. "What? No, well... I don't think so, anyway. Didn't mention it..."

Despite her relief, Maka is at a loss. "Oh. Then what  _did_ you talk about?" she asks, concerned and curious.

"Like I said, he was really confusing. The gist of it was the Black Blood sucks, and that I'm only supposed to go on missions with you from now on." Soul pushes away his mostly untouched plate while he leans back in the booth, draping a wrist over his eyes. "Headache, party of seven just walked in," he quietly mutters, voice rasping with a barely contained groan.

Sure enough, seven new customers come in to the establishment, waiting to be seated. One of them waves at her, and Maka abruptly startles with recognition. It's Kim Diehl with Ox Ford, followed by Jacqueline and Havar, and all being led by Kirikou and his two toddler-sized weapons. She waves with a smile while the party is directed to be seated on the other end of the restaurant. Soul sags with relief once the group's collective wavelength is further away.

"I thought you were starving to death."  
"Don't wanna eat when my head's exploding."

She puts her hand on his head, lightly rubbing her fingertips on his scalp. He sighs. She tries to pick up the conversation again. "Isn't that kind of assumed, though?" she asks. Soul grunts a question mark.

"Mmg?"  
"That you're with me on missions. The one time with Stein was because I was fresh out of surgery, wasn't it?"

When Soul's head tilts from side to side in negative, her heart's beating picks up a notch. She removes her hand from his head. "What?"

"Think it was a test. For me. Or the Blood, more like."

She feels frustrated more and more by the second.  _"What?"_ Maka repeats. How many times must she say this simple word today? She does not like not understanding anything.

Soul dully speaks to the stained ceiling while Maka attempts to block out the extraneous voices and silverware clatter from the rest of the building. "Though he said I did well, ...think I failed."

She must be missing something vital. She doesn't understand what he's saying. Madagascar had been a  _test?_  Had Stein really used Soul as an experiment on a mission? Okay, maybe that part isn't so unbelievable, and Maka had felt from the start that the whole assignment was fishy, but once she had returned home with Soul safely, she hadn't given any of it a second thought. She'd been too preoccupied with their relationship to question it. Realizing  _this_  fact infuriates her. She can't come up with anything to say, can't form any coherent questions to ask, and can't understand how she could have been caught unaware yet  _again._

Soul takes her silence as an implied cue to keep explaining. "He said they'd only send me out with you. Said the Black Blood is a heavy burden. Said that, without you, I was in 'a pinch'." He uses his free hand to make quotes in the air. "You help me control it." Then he shrugs.

Her voice is thin and pinched when she asks, "Until you're the Death Scythe, right? Until you replace Papa."

But he shrugs again. He just  _shrugs_ \- the noncommittal act of his shoulders like a signal for the very end of her fantastic morning.

"Think he meant permanently."

"What?" She doesn't realize how loud her voice has become until Soul puts a hand on her leg and wills for her to understand that people are staring, and she should please sit back down, because if they attract any more attention, his head may very well explode from all the wavelengths being disturbed during breakfast.

Maka jerkily returns to her seat. She tries to steady her breathing when she grits out, "We should go. And talk."

* * *

She'd said that, but she realizes she hasn't said a word since breakfast and they're at the foot of the stairwell to their apartment complex. Soul decides to finally break the tension.

"You're not taking this how I thought you would."

Maka climbs the first flight of stairs alongside her weapon, inflicted with so many emotions that her voice can't pick one and instead comes out flat. "How should I be taking this? I just found out that everything we've worked for was freakin' discarded like scrap paper."

Their shoes scuffle on the stairs in awkward silence. The bond shifts back and forth, hedging around her cautiously. As they round a corner to go up the next flight, her partner makes an uncomfortable noise before saying, "Maka, look. It's not your fault or anything-"

Not that it lasted very long, but the dam bursts.  _ **"Damn right it's not my fault!"**_ she exclaims, her spare emotions scattering in the face of her reigning anger. She's so furious she can't even continue walking, choosing instead to stand rigidly on a single stair. Her voice echoes and bounces sharply off every wall in the stairwell. "They didn't even  **consult**  me! Me! Your meister! Does my opinion not matter? How could they possibly set up some bogus mission and then put you with the one meister that's weak to insanity and think that's a fair test? It's like they were  _setting you up to lose!"_

Damn. Her voice has gone so high pitched and shrill that when it echoes back to her, she feels like a little girl again. A child that has thrown a tantrum in defense of unsaid accusations. But the thought of it can't escape her mind- the aged guilt of causing her partner to be infected with the Black Blood surges up and chokes her. If he hadn't been infected, he would have passed. Soul's new title would have been Death Scythe. She's so frustrated she feels the corner of her eyes tingling and burning.

"Calm down, Maka," he tries to say, but the roaring in her ears is too loud for her to acknowledge his words. And why the hell is he not even reacting? Shouldn't he be just as angry as she? Maka turns around on her soapbox of a step, and sees her weapon stalled on the landing behind her. With him just staring, shell-shocked at her tirade, she feels like she's overreacting. But she  _can't_ be! This is justified, isn't it?

"What's wrong with you? Where's your pride? What happened to 'Soul Eater'? What happened to being 'the coolest Death Scythe ever' and all that? Everything we've worked for... and you're not even  _angry!"_

Well, if he hadn't been angry before, she's definitely sparked something now. Soul's shoulders jerk up a hair and their bond tenses like a wire pulled taut. He snarls at eye level with her. "The hell am I supposed to do about it? Get a friggen' transfusion?" He gives her an agitated, disbelieving look. "The Blood's a  _liability,_ Maka. There's no way around it."

"But it's not a handicap! You are perfectly capable. It's ridiculous that after something like that, you're thrown out of the game like a defective weapon."  
"I wasn't thrown away! It's not like they stripped my rank from me or anything. We're good together. And Shinigami wants to keep us that way. Only you can wield me."

She refuses to believe this. "That's a load of crap. If they just send you out on- on another...  _ **experiment,"**_ she spits, glaring at a hand railing and wishing it would simply melt with the force of her ire, "with anyone else, it'd be fine-"

"It'd be reckless. You saw how it was. I almost infected Stein! If you hadn't come when you did-"  
"He's susceptible to insanity, and was evidently a poor choice for your 'test'."

" **Which I failed.** He's weak to it, yeah, but only you are strong against it. Understand?" Soul steps forward, crowding her on her stair so much that she's forced to take a step back. "'Risk is risk', remember? If I were the Death Scythe, I might not always be used by a Death God. And even if that weren't true, even if I were only exclusively used by him," he pauses to grimace, and Maka feels a wave of dislike and dread from him, the idea of being wielded by anyone other than his meister making her own throat tighten and clench, "-if, in Shinigami's hands, I  _lost_ it..." His lips purse into a thin line, his troubled gaze bitterly falling somewhere down and to the left.

The idea of an insane Death God and the potential repercussions leaves her mouth dry.

" _Things like 'Asura' would seem like child's play,"_ he silently agrees. Aloud, he murmurs, "Sorry, I guess. Tried."

Maka cringes. Soul's frustrations buzz around her like confused, smoke-laden bees. This isn't what she had meant at all! Now she feels guilty. "No, Soul, I'm not-"

"S'not really that big of a deal, is it?" her weapon asks, looking at her curiously. "I mean, still a Deathscythe. Still  _yours._ I get to stay with you. Is that not a good thing? Don't wanna sound like a jackass, but... haven't you been dreading the day I take your old man's place?"

"That's not," she begins to deny, but can't finish. The abrupt tone of this argument leaves her feeling winded, like she's been kicked in the stomach. She stumbles back and sits down heavily on the stairs. Soul leans away a bit, trying to regain some of his cool. He looks to the side again, resting his hands on either guardrail.

She softly says, "I don't want you to go, of course I don't." But this conversation has hit a major problem, and her words aren't reaching him the way they should. The bond has become a hindrance rather than a cross-check. Their feelings, and namely Soul's personal emotions (which is a surprise), are blurring the lines between a conversation about their work and one about their relationship. "But that's selfish of  _me._ What about our job?"

"My job is to protect you," Soul grumbles to the stairwell.

Maka sighs. "Our job is to help Shinigami-sama keep innocents from being  _eaten._  You know that as well as I do. If- if because of me you want to ignore that- if you want to give up everything we've worked for... that's not _right."_

"Maka-"  
"This isn't like you. You've never let the Black Blood win in anything before! But now- I don't want to stop being your meister, but I want what's best for you!"

Soul splutters, scoffing. "You  **are**  what's best for me! If the Blood keeps me with you then I  _embrace_ it, alright? You're a relief. With you, I can keep my guard down-"

Everything feels wrong. Since when did he put so much faith in her ability to keep him sane? "Wait, wait, wait! Weren't you telling me just the other day to not ignore the Blood? To not underestimate it? Just 'cause I'm with you doesn't make it safe. It's ultimately your blood, so y _ou_ control it, not me."

He laughs, but the bond has no humor laced in it. "There's no way I could do it without you. And now what're  _you_ saying? One minute the Blood's not a problem, and the next it's too dangerous?"

Maka groans, putting her face in her hands. She feels so very lost, and her weapon's headache has returned with such strength that it pounds behind  _her_  temples. "Don't rely on me too much, okay? You're not defective, and... Uhg I don't  **know** what I'm saying! I don't know what I mean."

She wants to scream and relieve the pressure building in her lungs. She can't make her feelings clear. They can't discuss the problem without becoming offended because they're threaded together so tightly that the idea of pulling apart stings them both. She wants every reason to keep him at her side, so she can't describe how dropping the goal of making him Death Scythe leaves her distraught, even if the outcome is favorable.

"It's not anything like you're thinking, Soul," she says as she pulls her hands away and lets them flop lifelessly in her lap like waving a white flag. "I just feel like we've been slighted." Her weapon was denied by Shinigami, and she doesn't know how to fix it. She is the one who has failed.

Though they haven't come to any useful conclusion other than they are both confused and agitated, Soul steps forward and holds out his hand to her.

"C'mon. It's friggen hot out here."

She takes it, and allows him to hoist her to her feet. They resume walking up the stairs, hand in hand, though their palms sweat together. Their steps echo loudly. His keys are jingling in the lock of their front door when he says, "If it bothers you this much, then we can talk to him tonight. Skull-Cheese."

The serious way he says the nickname makes her choke on an incredulous laugh despite herself. He looks at her over his shoulder. The bond's tautness loosens a little, and the corner of his mouth twitches. The moment fades, though, and he looks back at the doorknob in his hand.

"But, really. If you want it, I'll do whatever my meister asks." He opens the door and waits for an answer. The cicadas outside the stairwell begin to scree to life. Maka searches herself for that one spark of determination- the one that keeps her going when she is surrounded by nothing but her own failings.

"What I want," she says as she walks inside, "is for my weapon to not be hindered by anything." Like the Black Blood. Or like herself.

She'll find a way.

* * *

Her makeup has melted off. The collar of her T-shirt has a beige splotch of color staining it. She doesn't have to search the apartment to know that Blair is already out. Where could she have gone? It's still too early in the day for a shift at a nightclub, right?

Maka lets her hair back down and turns away from her vanity mirror. Soul sprawls on his stomach on her bed, his head hanging off one edge and dangling towards the floor. The air in the room is awkward and listless, but the alternative is worse- he could have not come in her room at all and left her in self-doubting silence. His being near is a comfort. Also, it's a reminder of all the things they'd done last night and this morning, and how much weight being 'together' has in this situation. Normally after a serious argument, he'd stew in his room for a few hours.

"Soul?"  
"Mm."

He still grunts, though. No change there.

"Later on, could you-" she tries to ask, but quietness of the apartment is shattered by a shrill ringing.

Soul's head fights gravity to glare out her bedroom's doorway. "Who the eff..." The phone rings a second time, and Maka trots to the living room to answer it. She feels disdain and dread from her partner. _"Better not be a mission..."_

When she hears who is on the other side of the line after a confused 'Hello?', her frown reaches the hardwood floor.

"Maka? H-hello darling! How are you today? Your voice is like music to my ears!"

She thinks she's developing a twitch in her right eye. It echoes the stabbing feeling in her gut when she ponders the state of the world and how  _this_ man currently has the job that her weapon was denied.

"Papa. What do you want?"

Spirit clears his throat, which sounds metallic and electronic through the telephone. "Actually, sweetheart, I need to, er, speak with The Bea- your weapon." He nervously laughs, which makes Maka squint with suspicion. Her father is acting so obviously nervous, that she predicts that something very stupid and unnecessary will probably occur in the near future.

" _...Why?"_

"Oh, just some... Deathscythe business. You know how it is, honey!"

The twitch is official. "I really don't," she deadpans, the phone in her hand creaking in her tightening grip at how applicable her statement truly is.

"Ehheh heh, so, erm, if I could speak with him? Maka-chan?"

"Please hold," she replies, considering all she really seems to be now is an operator and not a high-ranking meister whose opinions and experience account for  _anything._ Upon returning to her room, she finds Soul sitting upright on her bed, worriedly eying her entrance and gingerly navigating his way through the bond to figure out why all her signals read 'homicidal'.

She hands the cordless receiver to him. Maka explains with false-enthusiasm, "It's my  _ **dad!"**_  and immediately frowns.

Soul shies away from the phone like it's about to bite him. He places it at his ear and looks at her face with a resigned, "Gramps." While his eyes roll to the ceiling as he listens, Maka ponders the full meaning of the intended-offensive-nickname. She guesses that Soul had originally meant it as an insult to her father's age, though in reality Papa isn't all that old. And now that the two scythes have apparently had a conversation about  _grandchildren,_ she wonders if the habit of calling Spirit 'gramps' has become even more of a sport or is just plain awkward.

"What?" Soul barks out. "Right now?" He makes an annoyed whine. "Why me?"

She hears the garbled, shouting reply from her father.  _"Because it was your idea!"_

"My idea? You're the idiot who- UGH. Why the hell are you doing this at the last freakin' possible minute?" Her weapon sighs and flops back on the bed, hanging his head upside down this time. His elbow sticks in the air as he holds the phone to his ear.

She's deathly curious about the conversation, but Soul's shirt rides up his stomach and she's somewhat distracted.

" _ **WHAT?"**_

Oh good, she's not the only one repeating that useless, one-word question today.

* * *

She's working on the latch of the helmet as she steps off his bike. "Thanks for dropping me off," Maka says, handing the helmet to him with one hand and patting down her tangled hair with the other.

He grunts again, stowing the helmet away. "Sorry m'not staying," he hedges.

Maka tilts her head a little and looks at him with out the corner of her eyes. "Sure you can't tell me what's going on?" She watches him roll a shoulder uncomfortably and feels the bond more securely knit itself together around him, to keep his ideas to himself.

"...Positive," he grudgingly admits. He pulls out her shopping bag with her (now probably wrinkled) dress and shoes.

"You'll be back in time to get ready for the formal, right?"  
"Yeah. Unless I'm stuck with your old man all day, then the only formal I can get ready for is my own funeral."

They stare at each other for a minute. She stands stupidly. He sits awkwardly.

"Well, later."  
"M'kay."

And he revs his bike and pulls out of Death the Kid's massive driveway.

Uhg, what is she doing? "Wait!" she calls out, but he doesn't hear her. She watches him check for traffic and she desperately whips the bond to her needs to reach him in time. She calls for him again, and her partner cocks his head to one side as if he's heard something he hadn't been expecting. His hair flips around as he looks back at her.

She hadn't realized it beforehand, but she's already jogging to him down the driveway. He shifts his bike and slowly inches his way backwards, his feet alternating balance back and forth. He's shorter, sitting on the motorcycle. She leans down. The kiss is nothing special, but the bond billowing with strength at the contact exchanges everything their lips can not. Maka pulls back, feeling a little lightheaded but determinedly staring at his face. Soul's mouth twitches up a little, then back flat. Then up again. Sticks. He's holding back a smile when he looks at her feet.

"..m'Bye."

She grins. "Bye."

" _Love you,"_ the bond says, though she can't tell from whom.

Soul pulls into traffic. Maka turns around and shuffles her way back to her abandoned shopping bag. When she reaches the front door of the mansion, she finds Patti leaning on the doorjamb with a conspiratorial smile on her face.

"I seen that." Maka can't decide if the seafoam green facial mask plastered on the demon gun's face makes her less or more terrifying.

* * *

Plan A for Operation De-fuse had been Blair. Plan B to cover up the huge mark on her neck is now Elizabeth Thompson, but getting the weapon to comply is becoming a hassle.

"Dish it," the woman says, arms crossed over her impressive chest and one hand securely attached to her make-up bag.

"Liiiiz, come onnnn. This is embarrassing!"

Patti lifts up Maka's hair again, scrutinizing her bruised neck. She lets out an impressed whistle.

"So," Liz interrogates, "where did this come from?"

Maka's mouth opens, but her throat is so tight with embarrassment that nothing comes out. Can they not see her face burning like the face of the sun? Her mouth closes with a snap.

"Soul," the sisters say in unison.

Patti continues the hounding. "Was it Halloween? Was he pretending to be a  _vam_ pire?" she giggles, performing a mild, impersonating hiss of Dracula before dissolving into outright chortles.

Maka wishes to bury her head in the ground. She settles for leaning forward on the chair in their well-lit bathroom and putting her face between her knees.

Liz has no reservations dropping the million-dollar question. "Did you do it?"

She refuses to answer. The weapons go through various stages of disbelief at her silence.

"No way."  
"Highway!"  
"No  **way!"**  
"Curds and whey?"  
"They totally did it!"  
"Got 'er did."

The demon guns break out into girlish squeals and laughter, and Maka can't help but smile into her knees. They're contagious.

A haggard, strained voice breaks up the commotion.  **"Elizabeth."**

"Oh here we go," Liz says. Maka looks up in curiosity.

Death the Kid shambles into the doorway of the bathroom, looking on the verge off falling a threadbare bridge and into a gigantic pit. "Elizabeth. They're destroying the back yard." A pause. "Afternoon, Maka."

"Hi Kid."

"Alright, alright. I'm comin'," Liz says, patting him on both shoulders in unison. "Patti?"

The younger weapon comes to attention with a mock salute. "Yes, Captain?"

Liz tosses the make-up bag to her sister. "I leave it to you." Then, in Maka's direction. "You're off the hook, for now. Have you told Tsubaki?"

Maka worriedly shakes her head. Liz sticks her tongue to the side and grins playfully. "Ahaha, well. I'll take care of that for you," and then leads her meister out the door.

She fears for her life, but can only manage to ask, "Who's destroying your back yard?"

Patti hums while digging in her sister's massive makeup bag. "Mister Kraken. He's playing with Black Star and Tsubaki right now." A faint tremor shakes the mansion, chandeliers and knick knacks jingling quietly. Patti looks over her shoulder and must see Maka's worried face, for she adds, "Really hard," with a laugh.

* * *

She eats a light lunch, knowing there will be plenty of rich foods at the formal. At least, that's her excuse as she sits outside and watches Black Star Sway with Tsubaki in different katas and forms.

Tall, engorged clouds grow in the distance, their bottoms lined in dark grays. Something about the oppressive heat of the day rubs her wrong. She chalks it up to being confused and having that argument with Soul earlier. Maka hopes it doesn't rain while he's driving. She knows he hates riding in the rain and on slick roads.

She needs to get back in the shade. She's afraid her makeup will melt off her neck again. She should probably get started on fixing her hair, but she wants to speak with Tsubaki even though she's not sure what she's going to say.

The dark-haired weapon manages her first fizzling burst of Soul Force, which crackles towards a long, slimy arm of the beast that remains in Kid's swimming pool. With a loud  _clap_ , the attack lands, and Mr. Kraken whines, his appendage shrinking in size. Black Star cheers while the monster retaliates with its remaining, full-sized limbs by slapping the concrete and brick around the pool, shaking the area with a confined earthquake. The meister doesn't seem to notice, praising his weapon.  
Tsubaki trots over to her with a big smile on her elegant face. "Did you see, Maka? I figured it out finally."

Maka sincerely congratulates her. "But what are you guys  _doing?"_

"Stein-hakase told Black Star to put the poor thing back in the jar with Soul Force,  _and_ also wanted us to practice Swaying so... two-for-one?" She shrugs, which then turns out into a long stretch. "Oh! But I'm tired! It's really hard," Tsubaki admits with a down-to-earth smile.

"Huh. Well, good luck! Are you guys gonna make it to the formal in time?"  
"We'll try. I brought all our things here. Kid offered us a limo ride if we 'purged his pool'. Hopefully it doesn't rain! Water makes him bigger."

Maka tries to imagine Mister Kraken getting any larger. It doesn't work. " _Oh."_

"Yeah," Tsubaki agrees with a nervous laugh. "That would make it a lot more difficult. But that doesn't matter," she waves off the conversation, and is somehow overcome by a more intent personality.  **"Liz told me everything."**

There's that blush again. How dare Maka go on so long without one? "I figured as much."

To her bewilderment, her friend encircles her arms around her and  _lifts her off the ground._ "Aaaaah I'm so happy for you! We're all so happy for you!"

"AH! Your boobs are crushing me to death!" The weapon puts her down with an apologetic laugh, but she doesn't relinquish her hold. Maka tries to regain her composure. "I'm glad you, um, approve." Which is true. She feels like a weight has been lifted from her chest that she hadn't even realized was there to begin with. "...Though I'm not sure I like that everyone's been waiting on us to... you know."

Tsubaki pulls back a little to look at Maka in the face. "It's not so much  _that,_ it's just that we've been waiting for you to be happy!"

"What?"  
"Well, I mean it's not like you need to be dating someone to be happy, of course not, but you're happy  **together,**  and that makes us happy, and you've liked him for so long and now you guys are official and  _ahIcan'tcontainmyself!"_

She's being squished to death again, but Maka slowly smiles.

* * *

She watches Black Star and Tsubaki attempt to tame Mister Kraken a bit more, but after a while Maka decides that she may as well join Liz and Patti in getting ready for the formal, starting with steaming out the wrinkles in her dress.

But it doesn't take that long. She blames high-class, expensive technology that makes everything take a lot less time than anticipated. Though everything seems to have this problem, like borrowing one of Liz's disposable razors to shave the light stubble on her legs, trying to zip up her own dress, applying a light dusting of makeup, and probably doing so many damaging things to her hair that she'll be surprised if it'll ever forgive her. Even walking around like a poorly-puppeteered gazelle on stilts as she practices getting around in heels doesn't prove to be a long enough distraction.

So she waits. Impatiently. She watches Liz and Patti groom themselves into fashionable bombshells with one eye while keeping the other on a lavish grandfather clock. The more she waits, the more fidgety she gets. The closer it is to the time to leave, the more frazzled she becomes. There's no sign of Soul at all. Maka aimlessly wanders to a mirror to check her hair for the umpteenth time.

"You alright?"

Through the mirror, she spies Kid standing a little off to the right with a blank expression.

"I'm beginning to think I'm as easy to read as a book."  
"You are, but your wavelength is like mine when my socks don't match."

She scoffs, then half-heartedly nods with understanding. "I can't deny it." Kid says nothing else, so Maka gives in. "We had an argument today."

"Don't you always have arguments?"  
"T-that's true, but, this one was different."

Kid merely blinks patiently.

"We're not even mad at each other anymore, but it's still bothering me." Maka bites her lip, debating if she should say any more. But then again, Kid  _is_ Shinigami's son. Maybe he could shed some light. "He says that Shinigami-sama told him he wouldn't become the next Death Scythe because the Black Blood is too dangerous."

Kid's eyebrows raise up a notch. "Surely he's mistaken. Father has been doing almost nothing else but studying on the Black Blood. I don't think he would deny Soul a position so quickly."

It's Maka's turn to be surprised. She turns around to face Kid in a rush. "Really?"

"I'm sure whatever he is doing is for Soul's benefit."

At this, she scowls. "Like using him as a science experiment in Madagascar with the worst possible match for a meister to take him?"

"I didn't say that-"  
"Even if what you're saying is real, I can't stand for that. I don't like all this secrecy. Why hasn't anyone asked me about Soul? He's my weapon, surely I'm qualified, right?"

Kid catches his own reflection in the mirror behind her, and absently straightens his blazer. "Well obviously they can't, because one- you two have the Soul Chain, and if you'd been informed about any testing, he would have been as well, and that's unfair to all the other Death Scythes before him."

She hadn't thought of that, she bitterly admits to herself.

"Also, two- you can't know what wielding Soul is truly like for a normal meister because of your wavelength." The young god adjusts the lay of his shirt cuffs. "How much is Soul's 'normality' actually you? I'm sure Father needed your weapon to be tested with someone without your abilities. And though Stein is susceptible to insanity, he's also the most seasoned, and is compatible with any weapon."

Her brows tighten and furrow, trying to figure out how to respond. She's somehow both relieved and irritated that Kid can apply so much logic in so little time. But then the mansion rumbles and trembles. The two meisters stagger for balance. Dust falls from the ceiling and smothers one of many candles next to Maka, snuffing out its light.

Kid's calm flies out the window, though he miraculously stands his ground, hands clenching. "I must not think about it," he repeats like a prayer. She pats him arm gently.

"Ding-Ding-Dong!" Calls a voice behind her, and she jumps with a start.

"Father," Kid grits thinly, and offers a bow. Maka turns around and hurriedly mirrors him to the mirror in front of her.

"Kiddo! Looking snazzy! Maka-chan, this call's for you, actually."

"Y-yes?" she responds, but then watches Soul step into her line of sight. His appearance is at odds with the cheerful blue sky and fluffy clouded background of the Death Room. Soul is splotched with mud and vegetation from head to toe. "Oh my- what  _happened_ to you?"

"Long story. Uh-" he stalls, and she watches his red gaze travel down her body for a split second, and then his face turn a slight shade of pink.

Maka looks down at herself, and remembers she's wearing her dress. The real version of the one she'd worn in their little mental get-together this morning. The world tilts a little until she remembers how to breathe. She tries not to notice how Shinigami-sama's hollow gaze appears to go straight through her.

Soul runs a dirt-smuged hand through his not-so-white-anymore hair. "Anyway. Um. Right. I'mma go home and grab my shh...stuff, and then come get you."

Her face is steaming. "Actually, I can ride with Kid and everybody, if that makes it easier. They have a limo."

The mansion shimmies again and Kid makes a very distressing noise in the back of his throat. Soul gives them and their surroundings a bewildered look. "What the  _hell_ was that?" Shinigami takes this time to cut in the conversation.

"How  _is_  that extraction coming, Kiddo?"  
"Awful."  
"Extraction?"

"Mister Kraken," Maka offers to her confused partner. Soul visibly shudders.

"I must get back to my pool," Kid says in a rush, turning abruptly on his heel and hastening to the patio doors leading outside.

"Oh no you don't!" Liz exclaims, charging out a hallway and catching the young man before he can make it outside. Her heels clack loudly on the floor. "We just got you all pretty, and you're not gonna ruin it."

Patti follows shortly behind, giving a familiar wave to the mirror. "Heya Soul. Hi Grim-face!"

"Hey."  
"Yo!"

Liz calls behind her, "Pat, help me strap him in the car. What's the status, lovebirds?"

Soul gives a decent deer-in-the-headlights impression. "She talking to us?"

Maka helps him out with sheer determination beating down her embarrassment. "I'm coming with you guys," she calls out to Liz. To Soul she says, "I'll meet you there, okay?"

"...Ah. Sure."  
"O-okay. See you."

It's weird to talk to him and not feel the bond. Weird and awkward, and she thinks she wants to say those three parting words that lovers usually say, but she's not sure if she can so easily, much less with Shinigami staring at her right in the face.

"Mm. ...Later."

Soul gives a short bow to Shinigami as he steps out of view. Maka gives her own in the silence, but when she straightens, the God of Death is still presenting in the mirror. They stare at one another for a short silence. His masked face tilts slightly to the side, and it's almost uncannily similar to how Soul had done so in the driveway earlier this afternoon.

His name falls from her lips before she can even stop herself. "Soul!"

She hears a few steps and his messy hair pops back into view. He's slightly breathless. "Yeah?"

Maka's mouth opens, and says the first thing that pops into her mind. "Ummm. Cufflinks."

"Haah?"

Will he understand what she's trying to say, even without the bond? "They're on my bedside table," she says, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth.  _"Don't forget them."_ And what they stand for.

He squints at her for a breath, and then by the next his trademark grin spreads on his face. "Yeah. Won't forget." He gives her an amused wave and disappears again.

Maka waits a few seconds and shifts her full attention to the Lord of Death. She has a bone to pick, and it's decidedly skull-shaped. "Is he gone?"

"Yep."

She gives Shinigami the full brunt of her hardened gaze.

"Are you angry with me, Maka-chan?" he asks, though by the tone of his light voice, it seems he already knows the answer.

Her first raging thought is a resounding  _ **yes,**_ but she takes a deep breath, calms herself, and tries to call forth the trust she knows she has for the Death God. "I'm... frustrated."

"Do you perhaps want to ask me a question?"

It shoots from her like a bullet. "Is the Black Blood hindering Soul's eligibility as the next Death Scythe?"

Shinigami tilts his head this way and that, humming and pondering. "Yes."

Her stomach does that plummeting thing again, this time coming out somewhere near the opposite end of the earth. There she has it. Direct word from her superior that Soul's infection- the one she had caused- prevents him from being the best he can possibly be.

Desperation pollutes her voice. "Is there not some way to-"

But she's cut off, interrupted this time by a car horn. Her ride is about to leave without her. She gives Shinigami a pleading look.

"Remember, Maka-chan. The weapon amplifies the meister. You need only to play."  
"What?"  
"Hurry up, now! They're all waiting."

The mirror shimmers, and she's face to face with her intense bemusement.

After distractedly wishing Black Star and Tsubaki good hunting, she stumbles into the limo. Soul hadn't been kidding about Shinigami being cryptic.

Liz attempts to distract Kid from the thought of his back yard being destroyed by pointing out every single symmetrical thing about her outfit she can find. Patti checks her coverup handiwork on Maka's neck and touches it up while they pull out of the driveway. Maka looks out the window and watches the first drop of rain hit the glass. She wants to thank everyone for helping her out, but she's afraid her voice won't sound sincere because she's too disconnected from the present.

She runs Shinigami's words through her head over and over, but can only attribute them to a random reminder of one of the earliest lessons she'd been taught. She responds vaguely to the conversation in the limousine, unable to shake the feeling she's forgetting something important.

They're almost to Shibusen when she feels him. Soul's wavelength lashes out with resentment and frustration. Finally she spots him on the opposite end of an intersection as their limo stops for a red light. She wonders why he's so irritated, and why he's only just now leaving the school. His muddy street clothes look soaked already.

And then she notices Stein riding passenger behind him. The professor's mouth is moving, looking like he's shouting over the rain. The link is faint, feels weak, and it makes her confused- she tries to ask Soul a question but the light turns green. The distance between them is expanding, the bond too foggy and static-ridden to comprehend. She feels a delayed reaction from him- he's finally noticed her- just before he speeds into the oncoming storm.

Patti reassures her, looking over her shoulder through the window. "Guess Black Star needed Stein's help after all, 'cause of the rain. Soul looked kinda angry. He prolly hates playing taxi driver."

That makes sense, Maka decides. Tsubaki had mentioned how rain would make things difficult for her and Black Star.

She gives Patti a thankful smile, but it falters. For some reason, the inside of her cheek hurts, and for a horrifying moment, she thinks she tastes blood. Copper tinged with a smokey hint of things that make her spine faintly tremor. Maka rubs the inside of her mouth with her tongue and feels nothing.


	25. Either Way You Turn

**Soul**

He's still enamored with his bike. It continues to gleam like new, and purrs delightfully in his grip. It's kind of nice to just get out of the apartment and drive.

...Who is he kidding? Soul wants nothing more than to turn around, get Maka back from Gallows Mansion, go home, crawl in bed, and erase everything that had happened today beyond Sexy Shower Time. Well, maybe he'd make an exception for that little moment in Kid's driveway.

Still. Apart from that relieving moment, he is not okay with how unsure of the future he is. Once he got back in traffic, the comforting reprieve had faded. His headache remains, pins and pitchforks distributing electric pain behind his eyes, skull pounding at every stoplight to Shibusen.

Finally arriving, Soul idles his motorcycle in front of the intimidating steps of the school. He's been told several times to not park here, but it's not like anyone's going to class right now, and he hopes it's more than just wishful thinking that his little visit will be short-lived.

Because he should be at home, with Maka, figuring shit out and enjoying what should be the best morning of his whole freakin' life.

" _You_ _'_ _ve_ _never_ _let_ _the_ _Black_ _Blood_ _win_ _in_ _anything_ _before_ _!"_

Trudging the long march up to the entrance, he battles feelings of weariness and discontent. His shoes sluggishly stomp the beat to the pulsing ache in his temples. Shibusen looms forever ahead, like the embodiment of everything just out of reach.

He's  **not**  letting the Blood win. Hell, he doesn't even have to fight it, now that he's entrusted his sanity to Maka. Shingami said it himself that she keeps out the dark! As long as they're together, the blood won't win anything.

Then again, he thinks as he enters the building and heads toward the ballroom, they're not defeating it, either. They're stuck in a stalemate, and his being denied the Death Scythe position is only further proof of that fact.

Personally, Soul's fine with the status quo, but he knows clear to his soul that Maka is never fine with  _not_ _winning_ _._  If it were only his life being affected, he'd be content. But they are connected. They are a  **unit** **.**  Her promising future is affected by his, and his blood has stunted it.

It's not cool to be a hindrance.

The ballroom is empty, save for all the tables and decorations he and Spirit had assembled the day before. Maka's father failed to tell him where to meet while blabbing on the phone, and Soul has no desire to go searching for a man that might kill him on sight. He drapes his leather jacket on the back of a chair, at a loss of what to do.

Had it really only been yesterday that he'd pleaded 'not guilty' to sleeping with Maka? Now he  _is_ , on multiple counts, and the truth of it has probably rewritten his genetic code to somehow emit tiny father-figure-perceptible sound waves that scream 'I fucked your daughter, and it was amazing', and the moment Spirit hears them Soul can kiss his own ass goodbye.

He smirks, despite his headache. It was worth it, he admits to himself, though it's not so much an admittance than simply a cataloguing of truth _._ He'd do it again. Except for that part when he'd taken everything personally in the stairwell, blowing a fuse.

...Because it sounded like Maka had regrets. He felt his meister's brooding for the next hour, the link a constant whispering of doubts and confusions like wind rustling through pine needles.

Soul huffs, the sound small and insignificant in the large ballroom. He doesn't want to think about it anymore. And where the  _hell_ is Spirit?

Resigned to his fate of finding the man who is both his meister's father and the one deathscythe he apparently is unfit to replace, Soul stalks away from the hollow room with its lifeless decorations.

Walking in the general direction of Shinigami's room, he cringes and softens his footfalls, so the echoes of his shoes bouncing off empty halls do not further agitate the pounding in his skull. He'd dryly hoped that getting some distance between himself and Maka would ease his headache, seeing as he can't perceive souls without her nearby. Unfortunately, it lingers, and may actually be worse than before.

He just needs to eat something, probably. But a thought makes him stop in his tracks- hadn't Maka commented on his health this morning? Maybe he'scoming down with something.

Soul shakes his head (regretting the movement immediately because it rattles his brain inside his skull), and decides that no, he just needs some food. But then he looks to his right and sees a set of double-doors. It takes him a moment to place the tarnished french handles- they seem oddly familiar...

In midst of his musings, he happened to stop right in front of the music room he hasn't entered in years. Oh. Perfect. Gleeful to shove aside his worries for just a small while, Soul half-smirks as he pulls open the doors. He doesn't feel like looking for Spirit anyhow, and he's been wondering if the piano still exists. Some steam needs to be blown off.

It's not at all how he remembers. He's startled to find his memories of this room to be severely lacking when overlain by reality. Soul had always felt he knew this room on an intimate level- the place where he had first met Maka Albarn- but he doesn't recall the ornate chandelier, or the plush oriental carpets, or the heavily framed prints of composers of centuries past.

The room is smaller, for one. Or maybe he had been smaller the last he'd been present. Strangest of all, a faint smell of freshly used polish seeps through the musky thickness of stale air and collected dust. Sure enough, the very grand piano he's played once before still stands, a little off center, glittering as if ready for a fully booked performance. Not a speck of dust can be found as Soul lazily runs a finger across the spotless fallboard.

It's almost like it's been expecting him. Which is just as well, because the song- their song- is finished. This morning, before everything had gone awry, he heard the ending in his mind. He breathed in the smell of Maka's shampoo and he abruptly knew exactly how it should go.

He wants to play it. He wants to  _play_ _._

Soul takes a seat on the bench, feet lightly tapping pedals and feeling their weight. How many years has it been since he's played this one? He looks over his shoulder, to the entrance of the room, and easily pictures a tiny, young Maka, head slightly cocked to the side, still partially lost in whatever world his personal strangeness had taken her. Looking back at the keys with a small smile, his hands become poised, hovering over the glossy instrument.

He blinks, smile faltering. He lets his left hand slowly fall, pressing a few keys in harmony. He blinks.

"What-" Soul hears himself say, a quiet noise in a silent room.

...How does the beginning go, again? He plays a different set of notes. No, that's not it. This? No. It's C-sharp minor, he knows it is. His hands are in the right place. Yet, for the life of him, he can't seem to hear the opening measure. Tries again. Tries again. He feels a lick of panic flare to life in his gut.

Woah, woah, woah. Calm down. He doesn't give a shit! He's just burned out, that's all. He feels  _like_ shit, this morning had extra helpings of stress, and he's been working on the song for so long that he must have lost it somewhere between reflex and muscle memory.

So, whatever. He'll start from Maka's movement, instead. He knows that well enough- the rest will come back to him.

This time, he doesn't even know where to place his hands. In fact, his hands look almost as alien to him as the piano keys themselves. How had this worked, before? Heartbeat quickening with frustration and dread, Soul tries to remember the notes he's scribbled on napkins and paper bags and hotel notebooks, but it's all a blank. He knows he wrote them! He knows it wasn't a dream!

This is bullshit. The song was in his head  _this_ _very_ _morning_ _._  It can't just fucking disappear! He would merely  _think_  of Maka and her theme would pour from his fingers-

 _**CLANG** _ _**.** _

Soul leans back from the keys, fingers sliding off ivory and ebony. That's not what she sounds like at all.

His mind is a complete void. Even the part he figured out this morning is missing. It's gone.

The more he tries to recall, the stronger and more irritating his headache becomes. Hurriedly, Soul tries to think of something else, of any other song-

His fingers fly to the stuffy, predictable music of the composers on the walls. Soul knows them without thinking, pieces of waltzes and nocturnes and scherzi pouring from his fingers. Hands glide over the same notes that have been played by millions of other hands, written by Brahms, Liszt, Rachmaninoff, and he finds no resistance. Even Bach and Beethoven, whose compositions make him cringe.

He remembers. But his song is gone.

As a last-ditch effort, Soul's aching fingers robotically tap out the notes to that silly lullaby that he had dreamed up ages ago. At least he remembers it, but it comes out sounding emotionless and inexperienced, like the first time Maka had hesitantly pecked it out in the room of his soul. What is this crap? It's like anything he tries that he associates with his meister, he has a … a  _brain_ _fart_ _._ There's a gap, or maybe a wall, and it  _hurts_  to push against it.

Soul notices he's breathing heavily, like he's just climbed a god damned mountain. Everything from the crown of his pounding head to his toes uneasily jittering on the piano pedals is tense and cramped. He's somewhere between being completely panicked and so alienated from himself that it's numbing.

He feels nauseated. Maybe it's stress? His hands are clammy as they rub the back of his stiff neck.

How lame.

"Hey."

" **Ahg** **!"**  The act of jumping in surprise with his already tense body just makes him hurt more. "WHAT the- Stein? Ah, crap."

The professor lurks in the open doorway to the music room. His presence reminds Soul that he should have been looking for Spirit, many shitty etudes ago.

"You do know  _Death_ _Scythe_  is looking for you."

The emphasis on Spirit's position- the one he'd been denied- is like an extra little confidence-mutilating stab in Soul's fanfuckingtastic morning. "Yeah," he says shortly, staring at the glossy,  _despicable_  keys before him. He moves his arms reflexively to shove his hands into comforting coat pockets, but he realizes too late that the garment is still draped on the back of a chair in the ballroom. Soul scowls, awkwardly resting his forearms on his thighs.

"He's in the Death Room," Stein prods.

"Right."

With a sigh, Soul heaves his body to his feet, leaving behind yet another perplexing enigma recently added to his ever-growing list of Shit-He-Doesn't-Know-What-To-Do-About. On the way out of the room, he can't help but notice the very annoying and persistent expectant stare Stein wears. The professor's spectacles glare in various overhead lights as his face pointedly swivels wherever Soul moves.

" **What** **,"** he blurts out, his patience falling painfully short. But Stein plays innocent, which is about as convincing as Black Star pretending to be humble.

"Hmm?" The meister gives his head a little violent twitch, and Soul has no idea if the  _crack_  he hears is from the older man's neck or the unassisted screw in his head turning one creepy little cog. "Hurry up. Sempai is becoming a handful with his impatience."

Soul gives him another questioning stare down, but the professor only blinks, revealing nothing.

* * *

Why is it, whenever he has an argument with Maka, he ends up in servitude to her father? After the stupid medication fight, he'd woken up to a scythe in the face. After the verbal explosion about Soul Sway, he had slaved away in a boiling ballroom.

And now, dirt.

Soul slouches, trying to swallow his headache while the bright blue faux sky of the Death Room shines twenty-seven times too happily in his peripherals. "When I said 'in a pot', didn't mean in a trough, or in a coffin, or in a  _wartrench_ _."_

"It's called a window box," Spirit says dismissively, tying on an apron.

"It's the Grand friggen' Canyon!" he exclaims, though warning bells ring in the back of his mind about how he shouldn't push is luck- any instigation might accidentally turn into an admittance about having slept with the man's daughter. Twice. " How are we supposed to take this home, later? Strap a trailer to my  _ **bike**_ _ **?"**_

"Whatever works."

Soul suppresses a snarl. He'd rather run his weapon form through a pipe bender. "And why here, of all places?" Shinigami's room is kind of a random-assed place to be planting flowers.

The older man pulls a spare pair of gardening gloves out of the back pocket of his slacks and tosses them to Soul. "So you won't complain about the air conditioning." The word ' _wuss_ _'_ is easily read from Spirit's unaffected grin. "Just shut up and help me."

He can't punch him. He's Death Scythe  _and_  Maka's old man. Soul stares forlornly at the disturbingly uncool gloves in his hand. Pink cotton adorned with yellow duckies nearly smiles back in cheery happiness. He wearily glances to his left, where Head Skull-Cheese sits primly in a high-backed chair, holding a tiny saucer and teacup in his massive white hands. He silently implores the God of Death for any kind of advice. Shinigami only sips tea through his mask with a bubbling slurp, neutrally watching the two scythes as one watches a weather forecast, Stein quietly speaking at his side.

Resignedly, Soul glances back down at Spirit and the plethora of individually-packaged vegetation surrounding them both. The immediate area smells like fertilizer and wet dirt (and consequently,  _mushrooms_ _,_ which the very thought makes his head swim and stomach uncomfortably gurgle), and he wouldn't be surprised if Spirit had purchased the entire stock of whatever plant nursery he had graced with his presence.

Soul kneels to the floor, adorning the gardening gloves and grudgingly wondering how on earth Spirit had found such girlish print in a man's size. "Plant the herbs," he says as he tires of watching Spirit try to make up his mind on which variety of plants and flowers to start with. "She likes stuff that can be used for other...stuff," he offers lamely.

"My ever-practical baby."  
"Gag me."

He doesn't know what to say afterwards, annoyed that the awkward silence between them only seems to be affecting himself and not Spirit at all. All Soul can think about are job positions and a possibly homicidal father giving deranged, almost-permission to marry his daughter, so he starts digging holes in silence.

Maybe this is okay. Maybe he never really stood a chance at replacing Maka's old man. Spirit's not even that  _old_. He's experienced. He's clearly qualified, else Shinigami wouldn't have kept him for so long. He probably cares for Maka on a level that Soul can only dream.

Maybe he should just give up.

"Quit slacking, heathen."

Soul rolls his eyes and removes another root ball out from its plastic container. Despite his lack of wanting to cooperate, he still gently handles the plants. They're Maka's after all.

Uhg! There has to be a way to un-fuck-up his shit! If the Black Blood were gone, he could be twenty times the weapon Spirit Albarn is! ...That's what she would probably be saying, if she was in range of the link, anyway.

There's something kind of therapeutic about transferring plants into loamy dirt, even if it doesn't help his nausea very much. After awhile, he notices just how tightly packed the gigantic 'window box' is becoming with vegetation.

It's the stupidest question he's ever felt the need to ask, but, "Should they be... this close together?"

Spirit Albarn shifts his weight as he leans back on his knees and studies the mess of herbs. He shrugs. "Beh. Better too much than not enough!"

"...I guess..."

"Too much and there won't  _be_  any, Albarn," comes a voice from over Soul's shoulder.

"Sid!"  
"Sid?"

"Sid- _sensei_  to you, Evans," the zombie says to the side before turning back to the man across from him. "Spirit, you can't cram that many in there."

Spirit merely harrumphs, dismissively waving a dirt-encrusted, gloved hand. "They'll be fine!"

Shifting his weight to one foot, Sid grunts. "Trust an undead man when he says he knows a few things about dirt." Soul muffles an abrupt laugh-turned-choke into his shoulder, but Sid pays no mind.  **"** **You**  should know by now that smothering never ends well."

Maka's father splutters, and Sid kneels, intervening the whole planting fiasco. It's become a fucking weird, but not unpleasant, atmosphere, and Soul finds himself wondering just what the hell is going on. Every person/god in this room had been a part of his last mission, right? Had he really been set up to lose, like Maka believes?

It doesn't feel like it, shoving his hands in potting soil, surrounded by the people who would be in on the conspiracy- if that was, in fact, what it had been- that screwed them over. Looking over his shoulder again, Soul watches Stein continue speaking with Shinigami, occasionally glancing in his general direction, glasses still gleaming suspiciously with the movement.

Okay, maybe it feels  _kind_ _of_  like a conspiracy. But that's hard to get around if Stein's involved.

Tiredly sighing for the hundredth time, Soul glances at Spirit, who now whistles something not even close to being in tune with itself, as the older scythe happily waters a newly transplanted... whatever it is. Green Thing. Soul grimaces, headache thrumming silently in his temples. The father is just as tone deaf as the daughter.

Sometimes they're so alike he feels like an outsider.

"Sempai, come here a moment."

He doesn't even stop whistling, Spirit dusting his gloves off on his apron and strolling over to Stein and Shinigami, molding into that hush-hush secret conversation stance.

Probable conspiracy points: plus ten.

Soul quietly hisses to his remaining companion. "Hey. Sid."

"Sensei."  
"Mmmgrr, Sid- _sensei_ _."_

"Yeah," the meister responds, never faltering in his planter-arranging.

"So... guess that bird-broad got the jump on you?"

Sid turns his head marginally to the left and gives him a very blank, undead look. "In Madagascar?"

"Yeah," Soul confirms. Sid only looks back at the planter, providing no answer. Soul presses on, anyway, determined to get to the bottom of this. "Hypnotized by harpy tits and got kidnapped, maybe?"

The zombie's very catatonic-like mouth tries to twist into something resembling an incredulous frown. "I was, and  _am_ _not_ , the type to be distracted by scantily-clad old women," he states, firmly patting around a plant he's recently backfilled.

"...Just mummies, huh?"

That might have been a wry smirk on the teacher's face. Sid upends a potted plant over Soul's head, rubbing it in.

"Ah! Stop, shit, okay okay okay!"

So. It had been a setup, clearly. Sid would never have just let himself be toted off by that low-class witch for any other reason than On Purpose. It had been, at the very least, a test for Soul, if not one designed to fail. He frowns to himself as he attempts to get the potting soil out of his hair. "Sorry you got kidnapped for nothing," he says bitterly, though not for a lack of sincerity.

But he hears a reply he doesn't expect.

"Nothing? All meisters are glad to help  _any_  weapon become Death's, not just their own."

Soul's hands freeze in the middle of brushing off his shoulders. God, how he wishes he had Maka's Perception right now. He stares openly at Sid, looking for any helpful clues at all. "But... What? I  **failed** the test. You helped for nothing," he says slowly, unsure of what he's saying is true anymore.

The almost-incredulous frown tries to make an appearance again. "Failed?" he remarks quietly, cleaning off soil from the leaves of what might be basil with a gentleness not easily perceived from such an intimidating-looking man. "Isn't the clock still running?"

He must have a stupid look on his face, because Sid snorts. Soul tries to find his cool. "Uh. Have you been taking freakin'... cryptic lessons from Skull-Cheese?"

The zombie laughs outright, and Soul, through his confusion, feels like he has the slightest sliver of hope that he may have a second chance, or rather, his first chance had never ended. Sid leans to the side a little, and the weapon recognizes it dimly as that notorious hush-hush top secret stance everyone else has been using. More quietly than before, Sid says, "We're giving you all the help we can, Evans...  _Some_ _things_ _you_ _gotta_ _do_ _for_ _yourself_ _."_

He might just be able to un-fuck-up his shit after all.

"Shouldn't you be cleaning up for that dance? Or aren't you going...'cause it's starting soon."

"What time is it?" Soul blurts out, standing to his feet and ignoring the swirling in his head, because his and Maka's future might not all be for naught, and if he's late picking her up she'll kill him before he can tell her what he's just figured out.

He hates formals! He hates formals, and yet he's giving such a shit that there's no way he can remotely appear cool right now. Peeling off his girly gloves and tossing them to the floor, he says "Spirit! Gotta go, do it yourself!"

Soul half-jogs to the exit, and he's almost there before he hears a "Just a moment, Soul-kun~"

Ah, hell. He swivels on a foot, wondering what shit he's got himself into this time, and sees Shinigami waving him over while simultaneously speaking into his mirror. Strolling forward he hears Death the Kid's voice from the other side, which is pretty random because he doesn't know why Shinigami would need him for a conversation with his son, and even more strange is the sight of Stein restraining Spirit, who looks like he  _really_  wants to talk to Kid.

"Maka-chan, this call's for you, actually," the God of Death says. Oh. That explains some things. He'd already forgotten Maka was over at Kid and the Thompson's place/palace.

"Y-yes?" comes her confused voice, and he finally comes in view of her, Shinigami moving slightly to the side to make room, Spirit and Stein still curiously on the sidelines. He hears Sid rustling around with more plants on the other side of the room as she exclaims, "Oh my- what  _happened_  to you?"

Her dress is awfully familiar, and he really hopes his face isn't as hot as it feels. "Long story. Uh-" Crap, he needs to think of anything besides what they were doing the last time she was in that number, because he's facing Kid and standing next to his father, and  _Maka_ _'_ _s_ _father_  is standing not even ten feet from him.

Then she flushes, and he bites the inside of his cheek. It's strange to see her made-up. Rare. It's difficult, but exciting to match this meister to the one that screams in rage, swinging him in her deft hands.

He really,  _really_  needs to talk to her. Privately. And away from the conspirators in the room.

Soul tries to brush a little more of the dirt out of his hair, feeling extra inadequate in front of her. "Anyway. Um. Right. I'mma go home and grab my shh-" he probably shouldn't swear in front of his would-have-been/could-still-be future boss, "...stuff, and then come get you."

Her voice is tight with embarrassment and it's so damned adorable. "Actually, I can ride with Kid and everybody, if that makes it easier," she offers. One of her hands comes up to fiddle with a bundle of curled hair resting on her neck, and he knows she's paranoid about the mark he left on her. The bite in his cheek may as well be considered a sore at this point. "They have a limo."

And then the image shakes like in an earthquake. At first, he glances at the mirror, wondering if something is causing it to move erratically, but after hearing the  _noise_  Kid makes after the shaking ends, he realizes the tremor is on their end of the conversation.

"What the  _hell_  was that?" Suddenly the distance between Soul and his meister seems much more vast when he can't feel her wavelength and she's anywhere near something that could cause her harm without him there to  _stab_ _it_ _very_ _dead_ _._

Shinigami, however, remains as calm as a fucking Zen garden. "How  _is_  that extraction coming, Kiddo?"

"Awful," replies Kid, who appears to be ten seconds away from having a mental breakdown.

"Extraction?" Soul asks.

Maka pipes up. "Mister Kraken," she says, as if describing someone else's toddler throwing an unbecoming tantrum in public. Soul swallows down another wave of nausea just thinking about that blob of creepiness.

" _I_ _must_ _get_ _back_ _to_ _my_ _pool_ _,"_ Kid mutters, nearly slipping in his haste to save his property. He's caught by Liz in the distance, who exclaims something about being pretty, but he's distracted by Patti popping into view.

"Heya Soul. Hi Grim-face!" she waves.

"Hey."  
"Yo!"

Liz, somewhere out of his line of sight, calls for her sister's assistance to strap Kid into a car and says, "What's the status, lovebirds?"

Lovebirds? Who says that anymore? He shoots Maka a worried glance. Her nervous face tells him the cat is already out of the bag, but he asks anyway. "She talking to us?"

His meister gulps. To the side she calls out, "I'm coming with you guys!" She totally avoided his question! "I'll meet you there, okay?" she says to him with that patented you-can't-be-mad-at-me glance.

"...Ah. Sure." Uhg, he sucks! He sucks, he sucks, he  _sucks_ _at_ _being_ _cool_ _._

"O-okay. See you."

The tone in her voice drags his attention away from his complete lack of Rico Suave. She looks partway expectant and glances awkwardly at Shinigami before focusing on him again. He wishes he knew what the hell she was feeling, the lack of their link becoming painfully obvious.

Then again, he kind of knows already, doesn't he? This is the same pathetically uncomfortable dance they took part in the last time they said goodbye.

...Shit.

Well if  _she_ _'_ _s_  not saying it, he's not saying it! Especially with Spirit practically foaming at the mouth in his peripheral. "Mm," he grits out. "...Later."

Just bow to Skull-Cheese and get the hell out. They can exchange all that mushy stuff later when he's not under the threat of death. He needs a shower and something to eat...

"Soul!"

Man, it takes all the self-restraint he has from outright running back to her projection. "Yeah?"

"Ummm. Cufflinks."

That is nothing close to what he expected to hear from her. "Haah?"

There's a weird glint in her eye, and her blush reaches down her bare shoulders. "They're on my bedside table," she says with a secretive smirk.  _"_ _Don_ _'_ _t_ _forget_ _them_ _."_

It takes him a moment, but only one. A grin crashes on his face, feeling better now than he has since breakfast this morning. "Yeah," he says with a wave, trying his best not to cackle. "Won't forget."

How could he? She practically proposed to him with them. Soul waves at Sid, who raises a blue-tinged hand in farewell, cleaning up the debris around the newly finished window box for Maka. Once outside of the Death Room and headed down the hall, he snickers to himself.

Black Star'll be his maid of honor.

Sour mood mostly lifted, and headache lowered to an almost ignorable simmer, he feels it. It trickles in the back of his mind so softly that he has to stop and make certain it isn't his imagination. The music.

The music!

Quickly he looks around for the music room again. He wants to play, but he's also short on time and Maka was already dressed (and smoking hot) while he's still covered in assdirt. Just one moment, though, is all he needs to fix his self-esteem. It shouldn't take long. Where did that room go, again?

He trots down the hall and finds the doors still open. Soul doesn't even bother sitting down, just leaning over the bench and placing his hands where they belong with a smug grin.

Before his fingers even touch the keys, he's surrounded by blistering, head splitting pain, so burning hot it could melt steel, so abrupt and unannounced that his knees unbuckle and he scrambles for the piano and bench both to keep steady. He can't breathe, he can't see- what is this? Is this what people mean when they talk about having migraines? Surely not. This is unreal- his eyes are stinging with tears!

He stumbles away, to get to the hallway and the tiled floor because he knows it's cooler and he just wants to lay on it and put out the fire searing through his body. Once he gets there, leaning with one hand on a wall, he can breathe more easily. He's tired from the ordeal, but almost as suddenly as it had come, the pain fades into a distant murmur.

He gives up the idea of laying on the floor. A little more wobbly than he'd like to admit, he continues to the front doors of Shibusen, wanting to get home, take an aspirin or something, and maybe calling Maka to come home because  _that_ had been kind of scary as shit. If he can make it home in the first place.

The moment he steps outside, Soul rethinks his decision about going home. It's raining. He really doesn't want to juggle driving on wet roads and possibly having another...  _whatever_ _that_ _was_  at the same time. Maybe he should stay put and go to Stein to get checked on.

Except, as Soul warily glances at his bike, Stein is sitting on it. And looks like he's searching for keys.

"What the HELL, Stein?" Soul hollers down the stairs, taking two and three at a time down, despite his legs still feeling like rubber.

"I need to borrow this." Stein says, like the bike is a fucking pencil or paper clip.

Soul tries to catch his breath, furious, tired, and confused. "What the crap for?"

"My specimen... it's getting rained on."

"...At Kid's place?"

A nod. "You've seen what water does to it, I imagine?"

Water? Well, when it got in the pool it turned into a gigantic squid-kidney... if it got rained on-

"Oh,  _shit_ _._ Are they okay? Is  _Maka_  okay?  **Because** **that** **'** **s** **kind** **of** **important** **."**

"They've already left. Black Star and Tsubaki are on their own right now. I could use your keys."

Soul glowers, not particularly enjoying how Stein handles grand theft auto like borrowing a cup of sugar, but he's glad to hear that Maka is not facing danger without him. "Hell no. I'm driving. How am I s'posed to get home if you got bike anyway? Move over."

* * *

He should have grabbed his jacket. The rain pelts him like needles, and the speed that Stein urges him to use makes the water freezing in the wind. He catches himself chewing on the sore in his cheek at a stoplight in frustration, feeling like a cat who really does not want to be involved in a bath.

"Do you want a helmet?" Stein calls through the pelting rain. Soul barks over his shoulder which compartment it's in. He'll need it to be able to see, and he should have grabbed it before they left, hair soaked and muddy and rain constantly in his eyes. He refuses to acknowledge the weariness in his arms, and the reluctance his foot has while trying to shift gears. Stein had been about to hijack his bike (for the second time!), so whatever shit is going down at Kid's place must be pretty important. He needs to keep going.

The light turns green before he can put on a helmet, so it'll have to wait til the next light. As they cross the intersection, he feels something that sounds a lot like C-sharp minor tickling his ears, and he hopes it's Maka passing them, and not the prerequisite to another headache attack.

Soul's luck holds. He gets the helmet on eventually, which allows him to drive with more ease with the ability to see shit. They pull into Kid's driveway about fifteen minutes later, soaked to places more deep than mere bone.

"Okay get off, I gotta go home and-"

But a very large...  _mass_  of flesh rears into the sky, originating from somewhere behind the roofline of Gallows Mansion, slowly coming down to smash into the eastern wing.

Soul groans, Stein moving to dismount the motorcycle. "Kid is gonna be so pissed."

"Huh. That's a different exponential rate than I was expecting," Stein mutters. "You're probably going to be late to the formal," the professor informs him.

His gut sinks. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be," he deadpans, tugging off his helmet and rubbing his drenched head with a shaky hand. Soul follows Stein around a demolished security fence and into the wasteland that had once served as Death the Kid's backyard.

Soul stops walking the moment the majority of the beast is in his line of sight. It's just so...  **huge** **.**  He's forced to simply stare at the globulous blob of 'Mister Kraken' wreaking havoc anywhere its slimy limbs come into contact. It's almost majestic, in a creepy apocalyptic kind of way.

"Well," Stein speaks up, "I'm not supposed to wield you for the time being, so... you'll have to watch my back."

He should have brought his jacket.

"Yeah, sure," Soul replies blandly, watching Black Star, of all improbable people, being backed into a corner of rubble and what might have been lawn furniture. Both he and Tsubaki are on defense, attacking in near unison with the electric-like attack that he's seen Stein use on occasion, using it whenever a tentacle of the beast comes near. Not that it helps much- Soul notices the split second of whatever reverse-engineering their wavelengths induce on the monster, temporarily shrinking a limb or arm or leg or whatever the fuck those are, but the results are almost immediately counteracted by the rain, and then some.

The smell of formaldehyde is still present. It makes him retch suddenly, not expecting to be so affected by the stench. He feels quite ill now- he can admit it to himself. The rain is a lot more cold than he remembers, he's kind of dizzy, and  _that_ _damned_ _headache_ _..._

Soul takes a deep breath, watching Stein stalk off towards his 'specimen'. But he stops abruptly, looking back at him curiously with that analyzing, stupid, obnoxious, nosy look on his face! "WHAT," he snaps at him, tired of that stare and irritable, and shouldn't they be trying to help out Black Star and Tsubaki or something, and not eyeing him like an experiment?

In reply, Stein takes long strides back to him, reaching into his lab coat. Oh good, maybe it's something awesome that will calm his pounding head. Except it's not.

It's a scalpel.

"Wait. What- that's... That's for  **that** **thing** **,**  right?" Soul worriedly says, pointing at the gooey monstrous blob behind the professor.

"No," Stein reassures him, but it doesn't work. Soul doesn't even try to defend himself, so shocked that he can't process what's happening, because oh, great, and now this is the moment Professor Screw-ball decides to go berserk. Fantastic.  _He_ _should_ _have_ _grabbed_ _his_ _god_ _damned_ _jacket_ _,_ _god_ _damn_ _it_ _._  Fast as lightning, the man leaves a thin slice behind, his razor-sharp blade flying across Soul's right forearm.

"What the FUCK!" he howls, hand coming to the wound and pressing on the searing pain the scalpel had left behind. He glances down, and back up at Stein to see if he might do it again, but the man is staring at his handiwork. Soul looks again, seeing obsidian leaking between the squeezing fingers trying to keep the wound shut.

Hang on a second. That should be red, shouldn't it?

"Your blood is black."

Soul warily looks at Stein, blinking water out of his eyes. Stein gazes back, and it's the first time he's ever seen the seasoned meister at a loss of what to do next.

And then, in the corner of his eye, the beast eats Tsubaki.


	26. Lion-Hearted Girl

**Maka**

As far as thunderstorms go, this one is pretty boring.

What had she been looking for, when she quietly slipped between partially closed doors to hide from the rain under a balcony awning? Raindrops pitter on the decorative lights wrapped around a railing, chiming like tiny xylophone notes.

Seeing Soul ride into the storm with Stein-hakase has made a shroud of unease fall around her shoulders that she can't shrug off.

Her left shoe is rubbing the back of her heel raw. Maka leans to the right to pry the left one off, sorely rubbing the aching tendon. After a moment, she kicks off her other shoe grumpily, longing for bulky socks and combat boots.

Muffled laughter alternately rumbles and chimes through the closed doors behind her. Normally, she'd be in there, cracking jokes and mingling with her classmates during the formal, but her mind is a tangled mess.

"'The weapon amplifies the meister'," she murmurs to the rain, rubbing the backs of her arms. She repeats it again, and again, and again, Shinigami's words falling off her tongue, hoping for something to click. The God of Death had hinted at a solution to their problems, but she doesn't know where to start. She  _knows_  the weapon amplifies the meister! It's the whole idea behind Soul Resonance. What does that have anything to do with Soul becoming the next Death Scythe?

The sky continues to rain, uncaring.

The Black Blood has become more than just a mere nuisance. They could work with it before, but now it fully impedes their progress.  _His_  progress. Maka can't stand for that. She will open doors for her weapon- never close them. He can choose whether or not he wants to be Death Scythe, but she will take responsibility for her mistakes. The Black Blood must go.

...Except she has no idea how to get rid of it. Maka Albarn, top student of Shibusen, has no plan. Not even a jump-in-and-kick-some-ass-and-maybe-we-won't-die plan. She's clueless. She hadn't studied for this. She should talk to Stein. Or Soul. But they're both gone for the moment, leaving her so frustrated she could chop  _herself_ _._

She holds out a hand to let a stream of water falling from the roof line run across her palm. If only it could be so easy. If only she could hold him out in the rain and watch the black run off. But the Blood is not some speck of dirt on a table that can be wiped away. It's always there, ingrained, bonded, and stubborn.

Maka growls to herself. And why is it whenever something  _good_  happens between her and Soul, something like this happens? She just wants to enjoy a relationship, damn it!

"The weapon amplifies the meister. The weapon amplifies the meister." She says it so many times that the words lose their meaning. Water falls from darkening clouds, softly hissing as it touches ground.

The heavy thump-thumping of the party's bass-heavy music momentarily increases, throwing off her concentration, or lack of. Maka watches as the doors behind her open. A shimmering mass of gold and little black heels steps onto the balcony.

"Bu-tan was wondering where Maka-chan was. Why're you alone?"

Maka is too confused to immediately reply, first greeting the Blair with a surprised smile and then a perplexed frown. The last time she saw the cat was much earlier this morning and, come to think of it, the cat had disappeared by the time she and Soul returned from breakfast. "Soul's coming late. Wh-"

Blair cuts her off, crossing her arms over her ample chest. "What're you doing out here? It's  **wet** **,"**  she exclaims, ears flattening while she glowers at the rain for a moment.

"What are  _you_  doing here? I thought you weren't allowed to come to school functions..."

A neat grin slides on Blair's face. "They made an exception," she says, tilting her weight back and forth, rocking from heels to toes. She gives Maka a cautious look out of the corner of a golden eye. "Bu-tan is helping Death Scythe sha-pa-rown, tonight."

"Oh." Maka stares out into the rain a beat. Blair had come as a chaperone? She twists her lips to the side, calculating. "But it's pretty much a date," she offers flatly.

"...Yeaaah kinda-sorta," the cat admits. "I like to keep him company."

Something in her gut twists, but upon further inspection, Maka wonders if the usual reaction to her father being involved with any woman has boiled down to simple reflex. Instead, she takes a deep breath. "Just make sure he behaves, I guess."

Blair makes a little laugh and scoots closer, lifting Maka's hair off the side of her neck and peering casually. "He's been good lately, right? Death Scythe even gotta gift for Maka-chan, but he's waitin' so patiently."

"What? Seriously?" Maka looks behind, peering through the glass paneled door for any signs of her father but only seeing a mass of dancing bodies. She's surprised she's not being smothered with Spirit's gift giving, if what Blair says is true.

"Yup. Blair is the Albarn li-ay-zon, after all."

Maka gives her roommate a skeptical, shady look, but decides Blair is being serious rather than trying to be clever. Blair ignores the look altogether, and ushers Maka around and opens one of the double doors of the balcony. "You should see! They worked really hard. Get out of this wet!"

"Ah, but, hey! My shoes!"

But she's shoved into the crowd, and Blair disappears behind the collection of elegantly garbed the dancers around her and feeling the thump-thumping of the music through the floor into her bare feet make her toes clench, feeling extra vulnerable. Maka makes her way through, hurriedly waving politely when occasionally greeted by peers, feeling more and more like a fish swimming upstream by the second.

...'They' who? Why does her father have a gift for her? Her heart lurches slightly, wondering what (or maybe who) is waiting for her on the other side of the ballroom. Breaking through, she looks around for Spirit, but only sees other members of the Shibusen faculty mingling, and a table with what looks like Soul's coat hanging off a chair.

The bustle of the formal fades away. She doesn't care about the coat, either.

There's a coffin on the table, covered with a black sheet and a little folded piece of paper with her name on it. She dubiously inches forward. What's under the sheet? Is it a prank? Did Black Star arrive already?

(Is it a body? Has Soul died? Is this a nightmare?)

With nerves held steady by a tight grip of terror, Maka pulls the sheet down, dragging it slowly off the table and to the floor. Her breath comes out in a loud whoosh. She slaps a hand over her thundering heart. Someone is about to get a book to the face.

It's not a coffin, but a gigantic flower bed in an over-sized wooden tray. She smells basil and rosemary, and multicolored disco lights dance over the petals of various flowers. She's suddenly not surprised to hear Spirit's voice coming up beside her.

"Your papa didn't know how to wrap it, so..."

Maka glowers at Spirit, who cringes. "I thought it was a dead body."

"W-what? No! No, it's-" he hurriedly checks the flowers with a glance. "Of course it's not a body!"

"Could've fooled me. This is... kind of a  **lot** , Papa. How am I supposed to get this home?"

Spirit pulls on his tie nervously. "Your weapon offered to tow it home on his bike."

Choking on air, she crosses her arms. "Soul? That  _really_  doesn't sound like anything he would say."

Her father doesn't seem to hear her comment, instead settling for lacing his fidgeting fingers together like he doesn't know what to do with them. "But you want to take it home, right? B-because you like it?"

Maka has her mouth open to argue, but it snaps shut with a resigned sigh. Looking over to the enormous planter on the table, the tiniest of smiles crawls slowly on to her face. "Mm. Especially the herbs. But I like these too," she says, stepping forward and gently cupping what she recognizes as the buds of the skullflowers. They've managed to worm their way into her heart, somehow.

He walks forward to stand at her side. "They'll wilt eventually. But they come back next year, you know. If they're, uh, in dirt." His hands move from each other to nervously jingle loose change and keys in his pants pockets.

She smiles a little wider, casually sliding her arm in the crook of her papa's elbow and leaning on him slightly. "I like that." She can tell he's resisting the obnoxious and embarrassing urge to smother her in a hug, and she feels partly proud and partly guilty. "I guess this is what Soul couldn't tell me about?"

Spirit looks down curiously at her face. "You mean he didn't give it away? I know you two are Chained." Maka's eyebrows furrow, shaking her head, and hopefully beating down a flush at the thought of just how bonded she was with her weapon. Her father makes a surprised (and dare she wonder,  _impressed_ ) noise, gaze raising back to his gift to her. "Have to give that brat some credit," she thinks he mutters.

Maka can't ask anything before he wiggles his captured arm slightly and asks in his usual candor, "So, what're the chances my daughter will dance with her papa tonight?"

Because that's not embarrassing at  _all_  while being surrounded by all her peers. She looks to the side, maybe hoping for an escape, making a strained, unsure sound. Then she spots Blair again, now sitting on a bench against a wall. The cat makes shoo-ing gestures at her, and lips forming around words that look somewhat like 'he's been good'.

Great. Guilt trip from a cat.

"Okay! Okay. Fine. Sure. But  **just** **one** **.**  As a thank-you."

Spirit beams at her, holding out a hand. She smiles back wryly and takes it, but halts as soon as they move closer to the dance floor. "Oh! But, I'm not wearing any shoes," she trails off, toes wiggling as she looks at them.

"What? Why aren't you?"  
"They were annoying!"

Maka watches her father make a contemplative face for several seconds before shrugging. "Well, I'm not giving up." And then her father, Shinigami's personal Death Scythe, leans over and begins to toe off one of his dress shoes, still holding on to her hand.

"Dad! What are you doing?"

"I'm gonna dance with my daughter, is what," he replies abruptly, like she's missed an important fact. He says it so seriously that she finds herself laughing. He chuckles as he starts taking off the other shoe, but before he finishes, he stands straight, confusion etched on his face.

Still smiling, she asks, "What?" but he looks over his shoulder, eyes focused far away, listening to something she can not hear.

It dawns on her suddenly that her papa is a weapon in more than just title, and the concept of his being Soul Chained to a meister is startling. It had never occurred to Maka before, but who would Death Scythe be bound to other than Shinigami?

Her father hurriedly presses his toes back into his shoe. Maka asks again, more seriously, "What is it, Papa?"

Spirit shoves his heel back in just as she hears Marie Mjolnir scream.

"Come with me."

She doesn't let go of his hand.

* * *

Why can't she ever be wrong for once?

Soul rides off into the distance with Stein? Check. Maka suffers from paranoia and worry? Check. Stein's body parts return, unaided? Check. She morbidly wonders if people are going crazy, too. Maybe there'll even be zombies. Well, Sid's here, so there's another checkbox to mark off.

"Is this a setup?" she blurts out, voice sharper than intended. She doesn't mean to sound disrespectful, but to say she's displeased is to sugarcoat the situation. Five eyes and a pair of mask holes turn to her after her outburst. When her father's hand slides out of hers and tightens on her shoulder, she realizes she's shivering with ambivalent emotions.

"Setup?" Marie asks curiously, caught between keeping her one eye on Maka and the bouncing, flopping, severed ear rolling in Shinigami-sama's white palm.

"Another test," she explains, trying not to venomously spit the words out, feeling very halved without Soul at her side. Maka gestures to the animate ear wobbling around. "Is that what  _this_ is about? Because if it is, I'd like to file a complaint," she seethes.

"I'm afraid not, Maka-chan," the God of Death says calmly behind his mask. "This wasn't planned at all. ...Perhaps I have been too lenient with Soul's testing."

"Lenient?" Maka's back immediately turns to steel, forcing her upright.  _Lenient_ _?_  The 'test results' of Madagascar had been anything but lenient, hadn't they?

"Yes. I believed things to be under control. Mistake! As a result, Tsubaki may be in grave danger."

Maka sucks in a breath. In her frustration, she had dismissed the fact that Black Star and Tsubaki were taming the beast in the Gallows Mansion swimming pool, and that it was likely Stein had gone to assist them. Except now he's sending back body parts. His pale ear tries to rabidly chew on Shinigami's thumb. It's a good thing it doesn't have teeth.

She doesn't know what's happened, but she has a sinking feeling it has a lot to do with her weapon.

"Where is Soul?" she asks, but her voice is overpowered by Death the Kid sliding into the conversation, his weapons accompanying him.

"Father, what is happening?"

"Yeah," Liz adds in worriedly, "we heard Marie-"

Patti moves beside the teacher in question, gently patting her blonde head. "Is Marie-sensei okay?"

"I-I'm fine, thank you Patti-chan, but-"  
"Oh my god,  _is_ _that_ _an_ _EAR?_ _!"  
_ "Elizabeth, calm down-"  
"It's chewing on your dad's  _finger_ , how can I calm down!"

Maka wants to know what the hell is going on! All during the commotion, her father silently converses with furrowed eyebrows to Shinigami, who tilts his head in equally silent communication,  _and_ _it_ _just_ _pisses_ _her_ _off_ _more_ _._  Something stupid must have happened, Tsubaki's in trouble, and no one will tell her where her weapon is!

Finally she cries out above the rabble, "A mirror! Please!"Marie hears her and digs a compact mirror out of a silken handbag and offers it hurriedly. Maka's fingers fumble trying to open it, but once she does, she holds it to her superior's masked face, the action silencing everyone surrounding her. "Please," she grits out.

Shinigami-sama stares at her quietly a moment, then waves his giagantic free hand near the mirror. With a grim, but grateful nod, Maka flips the mirror, holding it away from the glare of various party lights so she can see. She feels other bodies crowd around her to view as well, but her attention is focused solely on the image in her hands.

The other end of the mirror must be a broken shard of glass- the view is jagged on one end, and the ground is tilted awry. The sky pelts rain directly on the glass. Water washes down the picture, distorting the background.

"Soul?" she calls. Maka swallows a lump in her throat. She hears the scraping of metal on stone.  _"_ _Soul_ _!"_  She holds her breath as she hears footfalls coming closer. A blur of blue races past.

Death the Kid nearly blows out her left eardrum with,  _ **"**_ _ **Black**_ _ **Star**_ _ **pick**_ _ **this**_ _ **up**_ _ **right**_ _ **now**_ _ **."**_

Maka swears she sees red and black zig-zags swing into view, faster than a lightning strike, and just as loud. "Fuck, fuck,  _fuck_ _,_ _FUCK_ _,"_  she hears, footsteps becoming louder again and the whole world turning on its head. "Kinda busy right now, shini- _crooked_ _!"_  Black Star snarls into his hand, the shard of glass held mostly steady as he runs, though still upside down. The background twists and shifts behind him.

"What have you done to my house!"

"Screw you! Your house is the least of my problems." The rubble around the ninja stops moving as Black Star pauses a moment to hurl a massive brick at his assailant off-screen. He continues to run, breath puffing harshly. "Tsubaki!" he calls to the side loudly, "I'm hurrying!"

"Tell me that wasn't the mantle he just passed-"

Maka shoulders Kid's spasming body away. "Where is Soul? Black Star, tell me!"

" _Where_ _do_ _you_ _think_ _he_ _is_ _,_ _genius_ _?"_  he pants, sending her an exasperated glare for half a second as he hurdles over rubble. "He's gone fucking bananas, and WHOA-" The image turns black a moment as Black Star rolls out of the way of what Maka thinks was a tentacle- but much,  _much_  larger than she remembers from this afternoon.

"Black Star!"  
"What was that?"  
"What's happening?"  
"My pool!"  
"I told you we should have killed that stupid thing!"

Sid speaks up over the commotion this time. "Black Star. Status report. Now."

"Shit," The harried meister mutters. "Okay, hang on." He sloppily sets the glass against something and hurriedly picks up what looks like part of a fireplace and forcibly hurls it out of view with a grunt. A crash is heard. "Right, so, the Kraken is huge, it keeps raining, half the house is gone-"

" _Make_ _him_ _destroy_ _the_ _other_ _half_ _or_ _I_ _'_ _ll_ _pull_ _your_ _skull_ _out_ _of_ _your_ _head_ _and_ _beat_ _you_ _to_ _Death_ _with_ _it_ _!"_

Liz clamps a hand over her irate meister's mouth.

"-and my weapon is in that fatass, and  _your_  weapon," he shouts, looking directly into Maka's face, "-is bein' a  _jackass_ _,_ so the great me demands his followers to  **back** **him** **the** **FUCK** **up** **sometime** **this** _ **century**_ _ **!"**_

Black Star cuts off his own tirade to sprint to safety. The glass breaks a moment later. She'd seen it, though- just before the end of the transmission. It forces her to snap the compact closed and hand it back to Marie. She turns on her bare heel and wrenches herself out of the group.

"Maka, where are you going?" Her father shouts. Maka makes it to the table with the coffin of flowers. She grabs Soul's coat and hauls it on.

"I'm getting my shoes."

Because she'd seen the silhouette of a man holding a long-handled blade.

* * *

There are not enough books in the world to help relieve her wrath.

"No can do. I'm on lunchbreak," says the strange driver of the limousine she and her friends had taken to get to the formal. Maka can't decide if he's a phantasm or a mummy, but she knows she wants to deck him with an encyclopedia.

She glares into his eyeless face as rain pelts down and mats her hair. "This is no time for lunch! You're not even eating anything!" she shouts, on the verge of strangling the man. She could be there by now. She could be fixing things. Her feet already hurt from her stupid shoes.

Marie makes a worried noise. "But we need to leave quickly! Students are in danger."

Shinigami has ordered their mission party to form and make haste, but this stubborn driver impedes their progress. Marie, Spirit, Kid, Patti, Liz, and herself must go, and she just wants to fly there, and she  _could_  with her father, and Kid certainly could as well, but neither of them can take Marie at the same time. Liz had suggested the limo, but the driver isn't cooperating.

She doesn't want to disobey orders and leave Marie behind, but it's becoming tempting the longer they stand uselessly in the rain.

Kid, who is still suffering from some kind of self-induced asphyxia after seeing the remains of his house through the mirror earlier, hoarsely attempts to reason with the driver. "And if I request you to take us somewhere? As a customer."

"I'm sorry, young master, but my employer insists I take my breaks and follow policy-"

" **BANG** **!"**

Patti floors the man with a left hook without warning. The driver slumps against his car, out like a light.

"Patricia!"

"Sorry, Kidd-o. I thought yer pinky twitched~"

"It most certainly did not!"

Marie says with a hand still covering her mouth in shock. "If this weren't an emergency, you'd have detention tomorrow, Patti-chan."

Liz scowls, a shawl draped over her head to keep her slightly more dry. "Whatever," she says, patting his chest curiously. "Crap. Patti, his pockets."

The sisters search the man, but only come back with a wallet and a small bag of chocolate covered nuts. "What are you two looking for?" Kid asks.

"Keys. But we can't find them."

"You could prolly wire this heap," Patti offers.

Liz contemplates the car in question while Kid says with a sigh, "Fine, fine. Let's just get him out of the rain."

Maka wonders if Assault and Grand Theft Auto are going to be added to her mission report. she watches impatiently as the trio carry the unconscious driver up Shibusen's hundreds of steps. Then a bounding ball of dark purple catches her eye, passing the three carrying the unconscious man and heading towards the group at the limousine.

Blair, in cat form, shivers violently and weaves around Maka's ankles, hiding under her dress from the rain.

"Blair! What are you doing out here?" Maka says, staring down at the feline. The cat leans back on her haunches and adjusts her magical hat with little furry paws.

"Everyone left Bu-tan!" She backs up a little and poofs into her human form, evening gown gone and back in her usual, promiscuous attire. "I want to join the fun~" and with a bump of her hip against the limousine door and a crackle of magic, a loud unlocking sound is heard.

Maka and Marie-sensei share speechless glances while Spirit opens the driver's side door for Blair to step in. Within moments and a few pumpkin spells, the car starts and is purring as the cat revs the engine. She steps out again, dusting off her hands as Spirit holds his coat open for her to take shelter under. Maka can't close her mouth.

Death the Kid and his weapons trot back to the group. "Hey!" Liz exclaims. "Who broke in?"

"Bu-tan was an alleycat once, too, yanno?" Blair holds out her hands, and Patti giggles and claps hers to them.

"Alright! Let's get in already. I'm driving," Death Scythe says with a grin.

A still somewhat overwhelmed Maka barely gets her seatbelt on when her papa floors it. She silently apologizes to the driver they had collectively assaulted, and to the limousine being pushed to the limit- though she urges the engine to push a little harder, at least to the rampant beat of her heart, for her friends' sakes.

For Soul.

She really hopes she can think of a plan.

* * *

Traffic is halted for the street that Kid and the Thompsons live, due to 'strange, unexplainable animal causes', and Spirit has to flash his Death Scythe badge to get around traffic and through the barricade. Maka's legs bounce with impatience. She should have flown.  _She_ _should_ _have_ _flown_ _!_

They park next to Soul's abandoned motorcycle.

She'd known, somewhere, that Kid's mansion had been more or less obliterated, but the idea solidifies once she sees the remains in person. Fire stubbornly burns despite the rain, smoke almost oozing through the air. Various pipes spew water like geysers to meet the sky pouring down.

As their party fumbles out of the car, a brick wall loudly crumbles before them, dust and debris scattering away to give a view of the monster in the back yard. She's fought gigantic kishin, zombies charmed by witches, skywhales, and oversized spiders, but her lungs constrict and courage stutters when her eyes focus on what Mr. Kraken has become.

"We need to keep that thing from getting any more wet," Marie says as the group runs forward, keeping their eyes peeled for Black Star. "How can we stop the rain?"

Blair moves her hands wide. "He needs a biiiiiig umbrella!"

At this statement, Maka looks to Kid, who looks back blankly, though she thinks sweat is beading on his brow after seeing the state of his estate. She makes a motion with her thumb, skyward. Kid looks back at the monster, calculating. "Yes. I can do that," he says. Maka nods.

"Do what?" Spirit asks.

"Liz. Patti. Let's go," Kid says, summoning Beezlebub.

"Time for a ride!" Patti exclaims, transforming into a pistol and arcing to Kid's hand.

Liz growls, joins her sister. Her voice comes out metallic in her gun form. "That creep better not have trashed my makeup stash."

The three take to the air, and soon, the largest skull-shield Maka has ever seen is stretched high above Mr. Kraken, gallons of water beginning to pool and run off the edges like a giant waterfall. She catches glints of the demon guns' bullets flashing towards the monster's many eyeballs.

"Oh."  
"Papa."

Only a glance and he transforms into her open hands. "I'll take good care of my Maka," comes his steely voice. His weight is different, but not impossible for her to handle. However, her father only makes Soul's absence more apparent.

Maka perceives Black Star and Stein a few hundred yards away, and Tsubaki even farther off. "This way!" She leads Marie and Blair through the remains of Kid's house.

"What's the plan?" Marie calls behind her.

"I have no idea!" Which is true, because all she can do is react as a large arm of Stein's experiment shadows them from above and careens towards them. She slices out of instinct, but the cut, though engulfing all of Spirit's blade, is shallow in comparison to the sheer mass of the limb, and she's forced to roll out of the way to not become pulverized. Maka trips over bricks and curtains once on her feet.

These damn shoes! "Close your eyes, Papa, and don't you dare look up my dress."

"Wh-what? I wouldn't!" She swings and jumps, cleanly trimming the long stilettos off her shoes. The result feels awkward, but not nearly as hindering as before.

"Blair! Go distract that thing to keep him from smacking us!"

The cat changes back into her animal form and veers off to the side. "Nya~ I love playing cat and mouse!"

"That is the  _creepiest_  mouse I've ever seen..." Marie pants. The monster roars angrily a moment later. "She gets the job done, though."

Back on track, Maka closes in on Black Star's wavelength. Rounding a crumbling corner of the mansion, she hears him shouting. "Soul, you asshat! WE WERE BROS!"

Soul?

Maka finally sees Black Star and Stein, the former wielding what looks to be a heavy water pipe and taking cover behind a lion-footed bath tub, and the latter outright laughing and swaying back and forth like a drunkard, slightly odd-looking with a missing ear. She has to blink the rain from her eyes to make sure she's not seeing things. She can't feel him, but he's there before her- Soul is being held in Stein's hands. The possessed professor swings the scythe around in a deadly whirl that cleanly divides the bathtub in two, Black Star diving out of the way.

That's when the ninja sees them. "'Bout time you got here, underlings! I'm tired as shit!"

Maka blocks a powerful blow aimed at the four of them. She wants to call out to Soul but now is not the time. "Why isn't Tsubaki with you?"

"I told you, she's in that  _thing_! I've been trying to get her out but your stupid BOYFRIEND keeps trying to kill me!" He swings his pipe and loudly connects with Stein's face, but the metal rebounds like hitting a stone wall.

Marie shifts into her weapon form, hurling herself through the air and lands a solid blow to Stein's side, knocking him a short distance. All the while she apologizes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but you're evil right now-"

Maka turns to Black Star. "Is she okay? I can sense her, but-"

"She's fine but..." he makes a face, feeling for his weapon, "-she says it's very unsanitary in there?" He ducks as Marie is flung back with a counterattack. "What the fuck is wrong with Soul? It's like he's not even home!"

"I've always wanted to go on vacation," Stein says matter-of-factly, using Soul like a golf club to drive half of the bathtub in their direction with a deafening  _clang_.

Blocking with Spirit, Maka is shoved back a few feet, next to Marie. The older woman shifts her hand and punts the bathtub right back. "You  _never_  want to go on vacation, you workaholic!" she cries out.

Black Star is back to hurling things as a distraction while Maka tries to find an opening to disarm Stein. She prods the bond, but gets nothing in return. She focuses with Perception, but is overwhelmed by the size of Stein's wavelength.

"Soul, wake up!" she shouts, but gets no response save for Stein's cackling. She doesn't have time to worry about it, because she's already reacting- moving forward because Soul's blade is headed for Black Star's face. The muscles in her arms shriek with stress from blocking the swing, and she feels her father growl uncomfortably in her hands. The two blades are hooked and locked, handles screeching and crunching together.

Stein's not even looking at her, commenting on the atomic make-up of elephants on Jupiter, but another face has eyes trained on her, melting and forming from her opponent's blade. Red eyes with pupils so wide that the color is nearly overtaken by darkness watch her with excitement.

" _Hello_ _,_ _Aunty_ _,"_ He smiles, voice draped in familiar tones, teeth sparkling in a Cheshire smile. Blade gone and just a face and neck protruding from a handle, she gasps at him, Spirit's scythe pressing into Soul's neck. She backpedals with her father in hand, quickly moving away.

"Don't get shaken! Hold your ground," Spirit calls from her trembling hands. But she can't get over it. Soul is right in front of her, but all she feels is static.

" _ **Guard**_ _ **!**_ _ **Maka**_ _ **!"**_

She guards and saves herself from catastrophe just in time, Black Star countering Stein's punch with a kick while she tries to regain balance of her body and her terrified heart. Marie takes another swing, this time for Soul, but it's that brick wall effect again, neither of the crazed people flinching.

But Maka notices the thin line of black (Black. Black. Why must it be Black?) on Soul's neck that she had inadvertently made. It heals as she watches. Her voice is a growl Soul would be proud of. "Let him go."

" _Oh_ _?_ _Let_ _who_ _go_ _?"_ he replies with her weapon's smile, but eyes still too wide and gleeful to pull off the act.

"Maka-chan, I can't do anything to him," Marie says to her side.

"Could try Soul Force, but," Black Star pants, "-was savin' it for Tsubaki."

Not-Soul's eyes follow her every movement intently, like watching something very interesting (or delicious) from a distance. Stein makes no further moves to attack.

"What do you want?"

Her father argues, voice echoing from his weapon form. "Maka, this is no time for making deals with a  _crazy_ _man_ _._ "

"Dude, that ain't a crazy man. I'm not sure that's even a man... Well. Apart from Stein. That's probably not true either," Black Star corrects.

"You don't know the half of it," Maka replies.

The Oni's smile widens even further, Stein cackling like an echo of his unheard thoughts.  _"_ _I_ _have_ _a_ _proposition_ _._ _I_ _'_ _ll_ _let_ _creepy_ _doorknob_ _-_ _head_ _go_ _,_ _if_ _you_ _wield_ _me_ _instead_ _."_

Maka squints with unease. "Why."

" _Does_ _it_ _matter_ _?"_  he replies.

"It's a trap, Maka."

"I'm aware, Papa," she mutters.

But they need Stein to not be homicidal. She eyes where the mark had disappeared from Soul's neck. She leans her father's weapon form against what's left of Kid's fireplace. She hears the nearby monster howl again, the earth casually rumbling like it's been doing it all its life. Black Star braces himself, and Marie does the same. Spirit complains and tries to reason with Maka, but shifts into his human form and keeps a bladed arm.

"Fine. Deal."

The demon wearing Soul's skin chuckles.  _"_ _Good_ _!_ _I_ _was_ _tired_ _of_ _this_ _station_ _anyway_ _!"_  An arm shifts out of the weapon's handle and violently spins the knob in Stein's head like a roulette wheel. The Oni then shifts into jagged light and curves towards Maka's open hand.

But she swerves, pivoting on one foot to grab Marie's arm, very grateful she hadn't left the weapon behind in her haste. She prays Marie will not only react in time, but also be light enough for her. "Sensei!" she calls out, pulling the woman towards her, blinking, and then suddenly hurling a hammer and pushing as much of her own wavelength as she can with just a millisecond to spare. Marie's weapon form collides into Soul's transformation light. The crash is ear-bursting, Soul's human body careening in the air like a fired cannon ball, sailing through a waterfall and landing near the foot of the monster.

For a moment, she's terrified she's killed him. But his body moves with a quiet groan, and once he's away from Stein, she can finally feel him. Faintly, Soul's wavelength shimmers in the distance. Behind her, Stein makes a similar noise.

"Papa, you should help Stein. Black Star, get to Tsubaki! Marie, are you okay?" The weapon pulses in her hand.

"I-I'm okay... just a little dizzy. I'm ready!" The tonfa is heavier than Maka would like, but it's fine. The weight will help knock the crazy out of him.

"Maka, are you sure..?" Her father asks, worriedly.

"I'm good, Papa. Help Stein. He's still missing an ear," she calls behind her, trotting to Soul, or Oni, or whoever is present. Closer to the monster, she has to avoid goo puddles. She hears constant gunfire and occasionally hears Blair's hissing and yowling, followed by explosions. She ducks under the waterfall with Marie-sensei in hand.

"...Soul?" she asks from a several feet away, though she doesn't know why she asks. She knows it's not him. For one, he's in a suit, and she knows he wasn't wearing one when he drove away from Shibusen. For another, he doesn't respond when she reaches for the bond.

A groan.  _"_ _Wrong_ _."_  The Oni drags himself to his feet and tenderly touches his nose.  _"_ _This_ _is_ _his_ _body_ _,_ _you_ _know_ _!_ _You_ _should_ _treat_ _it_ _more_ _nicely_ _._ _Oh_ _,_ _look_ _._ _Ha_ _!_ _It_ _'_ _s_ _black_ _,_ " he says, pulling his hand away from his nose and coming away wet with blood.

"What have you done to him?"

He straightens his lapels- a hauntingly similar motion of Soul's- and grins.  _"_ _I_ _made_ _a_ _small_ _investment_ _._ _And_ _when_ _I_ _saw_ _the_ _opportunity_ _,_ _I_ _cashed_ _in_ _._ _The_ _moron_ _has_ _no_ _will_ _to_ _fight_ _me_ _!"_  He says happily, shrugging.  _"_ _And_ _here_ _I_ _am_ _._ _Here_ _!_ _The_ _World_ _!_ _I_ _even_ _got_ _rained_ _on_ _._ _Though_ _I_ _had_ _higher_ _hopes_ _..._ _the_ _place_ _is_ _rather_ _boring_ _."_

The demon walks forward to her, oozing confidence she knows is borrowed. She holds her ground, hand gripping Marie tightly.  _"_ _That_ _'_ _s_ _why_ _I_ _like_ _to_ _gamble_ _._ _To_ _bargain_ _._ _To_ _take_ _risks_ _._ _It_ _'_ _s_ _boring_ _by_ _myself_ _._ _Stein_ _doesn_ _'_ _t_ _get_ _it_ _._ _Once_ _he_ _'_ _s_ _crazy_ _he_ _'_ _s_ _just_ _a_ _puppet_ _._ _But_ you _,"_ he purrs, stepping much too close for her liking.  _"_ _When_ _you_ _'_ _re_ _off_ _,_ _you_ _'_ _re_ **fun** **.** _I_ _remember_ _."_

Maka swallows down the absurd urge to blush, embarrassed. The last time she went crazy, she tried to bite off her opponent's head.

" _But_ _I_ _know_ _you_ _,_ _Anti_ _-_ _Demon_ _._ _I_ _'_ _m_ _sure_ _you_ _won_ _'_ _t_ _just_ _give_   _in,"_ he says with boredom, "- _so_ _listen_ _to_ _my_ _offer_ _again_ _-"_

"I'd rather just beat your face in," she says with a glare, shaking her head to get her wet bangs out of her eyes. She hefts Marie's comforting weight in her hand.

The Oni raises Soul's eyebrow.  _"_ _I_ _don_ _'_ _t_ _disagree_ _that_ _would_ _be_ _effective_ _,_ _but_ _..."_  He waves the hand with drying blood in her line of sight.  _"_ _Might_ _be_ _a_ _little_ _too_ _-_ _effective_ _,_ _don_ _'_ _t_ _you_ _think_ _?_ _You_ _don_ _'_ _t_ _want_ _to_ _kill_ _the_ _poor sap_ _,_ _he_ _'_ _s_ _been_ _wondering_ _what_ _to_ _name_ _your_ _future_ _smelly_ _human_ _babies_ _."_

"What?" Maka chokes out.

"What?" Marie shrieks from her hand, but Maka doesn't reply. He could be playing with her emotions- in fact, it's probably a given- but her attacks  _are_  hurting him, and by proxy, Soul's body. She may accidentally kill him before she can figure a way out of this mess.

" _Here_ _'_ _s_ _the_ _deal_ _,"_ Oni starts again, picking up a curled end of her soaked hair and toying it between fingers that are not his.  _"_ _You_ _can_ _try_ _to_ _get_ _sappy_ _lover_ _-_ _boy_ _back_ _,_ _but_ _you_ _must_ _open_ _yourself_ _to_ me. _"_

"Fine." She doesn't even need to think twice.

"Maka!" Marie shudders in her hand.

" _Excellent_ _._ _I_ _'_ _m_ _going_ _to_ _have_ _to_ _ask_ _you_ _to_ _drop_ _your_ _bulldozer, of course._ _"_

"Bulldoze this!" Marie cries, transforming out of Maka's lax hand and aiming a steeled punch to Soul's face, but without Maka's wavelength backing her, she bounces off like rubber. The demon gives the woman a charming smile as she recovers.

"Sensei, you should back up Stein and Papa," she says to the side, keeping her eyes on the obsidian ones before her.

"Maka-chan-"

"They may need it," she admits grimly, observing the Oni's pleased, feral grin. "Soon."

He laughs outright as Marie hesitantly backs away. Maka knows it's another trap, or the same one it's always been, but she only has two choices and the other one risks more than she's willing to give, and there's no time to study anymore. Courage is all she has left.

"Let's make a deal."

Her anger boils as the demon holding her partner's body hostage moves even closer.  _"_ _Yes_ _,_ _my_ _meister_ _."_


	27. If There's A Rocket, Tie Me To It

**Soul**

 

**  
**

He'd forgotten about the monster. He supposes that just because he doesn't think about it all the time doesn't mean it isn't there. Like perceiving souls. Or wearing clothes. Or the Black Blood.

"Tsubaki!" Black Star roars, and it's the most frenzied Soul has ever seen his friend. He watches the meister ready numerous attacks to retaliate, each one cut short because his weapon is not in his hands as he is used to.

Soul wants to go help- he knows he and Black Star are incompatible, but he could at least watch the guy's back- however, Stein stands in his way. Hand wrapped around the slice in his arm, Soul snarls at the professor. "Come on! What's more important? My blood or Tsubaki getting killed?"

Pouring rain dilutes any major emotions on the older man's face, but Soul knows where Stein's feelings lie. Harried and irritated, the meister points his scalpel at him before turning towards Black Star. "Stay at a  _distance_ ," he warns emphatically. "If anything here gets infected, the results would be disastrous."

He wants to argue that maybe the professor shouldn't have  _stabbed_ _him_  and have his blood exposed in the first place, but he's coughing again, brought to his knees from choking on formaldehyde fumes and fear until his eyes water. He worries he'll pass out. Vaguely he registers Black Star's howls of fury and Stein attempting to shout instructions, but mostly Soul just feels the earth shuddering from the ever-growing beast. It rumbles and makes his ribs seem to clatter against themselves in his chest. The rain is freezing, or maybe he's burning, and he wonders if Maka has found his jacket by now, wonders if she's still kind of mad at him, wonders how long it will take for her to realize everything is wrong.

Hopefully soon. Please let it be soon. He can't do this without her. He can't do anything by himself!

The battle is headed his way, Black Star and Stein avoiding earth-shattering tentacles and shooting staticy, plasma crap out of their hands. He should be trying to get  _out_  of the way, staying at a distance, but it's all he can do to get off his knees and stand. Soul sees it happening before his eyes, just another arm of many headed towards the two meisters, not even in a blind spot but probably pretty worrisome if unarmed. So he holds his ground and does as he's been taught to do, though about as gracelessly as a meat bag filled with jello. Shifting his arm, which, he notes, is already healed thanks and no thanks to the Black Blood, he swipes and tries to hold off the slimy arm headed for the meisters he should be protecting.

It's deceiving, how something so large looks like it's moving slowly. In truth, it's like a freight train with every train car filled with lit gunpowder plowing into him. His blade does make a gash, but only because the force of the tentacle colliding into his body forces the sharp metal into flesh. To make matters worse, he's  _stuck_ , the weight of the damn arm crushing the air out of his burning lungs.

What a shitty day. He doesn't even know if Stein and Black Star even benefited from his pathetic act of heroism. He's forced to fully transform into a scythe, because at least he doesn't have organs to squish to death as a weapon, though it's still uncomfortable as fuck being smothered by goo. Soul wonders if Tsubaki has done the same, inside the beast. Hopefully cephalopod-kidney monsters don't have stomach acid that burns through demon steel, but there's no telling as it came from Stein's lab.

His head hurts. Everything hurts. Surely something besides bones are broken. He hears groans and sounds of a struggle, and he realizes at least one person is suffocating under this fatass. Maybe he can half-transform, half-shimmy his way towards whoever is dying and cut them loose or something.

But he doesn't have to, because he feels a hand grip the base of his scythe handle. Oh good. Even if it's not Maka, he's pretty sure just about anyone on the planet has a wavelength more stable than his right now, and maybe his sanity can be sustained just enough to be worth a damn.

Then again, he recognizes this wavelength. He's pulled closer, grasped, swung- all the while Soul chanting 'shit, fuck, damn, fuck, no' because it's Stein, of course it is, Mister fucking Susceptible, but the man is trying to save himself from drowning in cephalo-kidney and slime, and Black Star is only just keeping himself from being eaten like a fucking popcorn shrimp. So Soul lets himself be wielded, cleanly hurling through one arm, then two, then a third holding Black Star by the face.

Well. That wasn't so bad. He's tunnel-visioning from the insanity vibrating through his body and into Stein's, but at least they're not dead. He's done one last thing as a weapon before ruining all chances of survival.

Just before he blacks out, he watches Stein rip his own ear off.

He fucking hates formals.

* * *

Darkness snaps around him. It blinds and deafens him, unyielding. The longer he's aware of the black encasing him, the faster his awareness fades into the dark. What's happening again? What's with all the shouting?

Where is he?

He opens his eyes, muted light seeping in his vision from the right. Or left? He doesn't remember directions anymore. There's something familiar a little ways away, across a sea of warping squares painted black and... some other color he can't recall. The object he tries to place is black too- everything seems to be black- and on top of it is a little monster man, no... a little  _ogre_ _._

Something about this creature makes him want to react, though he's not sure how. The best he can manage is to widen his eyes and groan.

"How nice of you to finally show up," the tiny ogre says, smiling in a way that makes Soul's skin wish to be elsewhere. Little hands with long fingers dig into the surface of the black... what is that thing, anyway?

"It's a piano. I'd call you a dumbass, but seeing as I'm in the process of stealing your body, I suppose your pathetic memory can't be blamed." The ogre takes a firm grasp of the top of the piano and yanks, pulling up a large, splintering piece of... he can't remember. His head hurts.

"Just relax," says the monster in a soothing voice, though Soul has the feeling he isn't being sincere. "Though  _that_ _'_ _s_  all your good at, isn't it? You can't do anything on your own, isn't that right?"

Something in his body constricts as another piece of the piano is shredded through Little Ogre's claws. The monster's eyes are darker than any color Soul knows, regarding him with a smugness that is worrisome, though he doesn't know what there is to worry about.

"That's right, boy. There's nothing to worry about. I'll take good care of our meister."

Meister? Soul closes his eyes, finding it difficult to breathe. The monster's voice is so convincing. The... he's forgotten the name of it again- the black thing underneath the ogre makes a screeching noise as it pries its hands into a hole that Soul vaguely remembers had been seared into the surface.

...What's a meister again?

A shadow of a laugh pushes darkness onto him.  _"_ _Perfect_ _."_ He hears a breath, like someone blowing out a flame.

* * *

There is a sound. Well, it's not so much a sound as it is the sensation of a strangeness shaking the brain. It takes several moments, whatever moments are, to discern what noises may even be. The sound is garbled and muffled, and he wonders where it's coming from because he feels alone.

He feels alone. He? Oh, yes. He's a person. His eyes open, or maybe they were already open, and he is met with so much black that he wonders if there is air for him to breathe. He takes a breath, filling his lungs. Exhales. Well, that seems to be working.

People have hands, right? Does he have those? He's almost startled to feel his fingers curling into fists. They're stiff, like they are unused to moving. He pats his chest, where his lungs are supposed to be. His hand thumps against him, and he hears this, glad to know there are other sounds to be heard.

Alright, what else does he have? With some difficulty, his hands find each other in the dark. They clap clumsily together. He feels the tips of cloth around his...wrists? These are wrists, right? Yeah. Though a finger of his right hand is nicked by something sharp. Pain! This is familiar too, somehow.

What is this, on his wrist? It feels cold at first, but he realizes it is actually very warm- almost too hot to touch. A word pops into his head, but it fizzles out before he can catch it. His left hand searches his right wrist in a similar area, and finds another, though it feels somewhat different. They leave familiar impressions on his fingertips. Images suddenly sear behind his eyes: A shining instrument in a cramped living room. A girl... a girl on a couch, listening quietly.

" _Cufflinks_ _._ _Don_ _'_ _t_ _forget_ _them_ _."_

Right. Of course that's what these are! What an idiot. How had he forgotten? He'd told her he wouldn't. But who had that been, again? He knows her. He knows he knows her, but the information he wants is just out of reach. She is the key though, she has to be.

She's okay with children. His. Theirs.  _Us_ _._ _We_ _._ _Ours_ _._ _Together_ _._

Her body- just trying to remember the texture of her skin opens doors in his mind that he hadn't realized were closed. He searches for her labored breathing and the  _thump_ _thump_ _thump_  of her heart in her chest, pressed against his, tempos aligned. Is her hair is gold? No. Brown? No. Somewhere in between.

Dusty olive eyes that gleam in fading sunlight, like an anchor, like a bridge, like a bright lantern held in the dark, like every sturdy safe thing he can almost remember, and her voice-

And distantly, he hears someone scream. What are they saying? It's still muffled and vague, but he senses an urgency. Something tugs at him, like a hand gripping around his heart and yanking.

"Soul Eater Evans I know you're here, dammit!"

Oh. Perhaps that's him? That's a strange name. It's thick and familiar, however. The name of a demon weapon. Scythe. White hair. Red eyes. Sharp teeth.

Badass jacket.

Suddenly, he knows more than his mere existence. Soul recalls his personality. He's a pianist. He's a Death Scythe. He's a son. He's a little brother. He drives a motorcycle, because it's always been cool. He is something more than a boyfriend, he is a partner, a lover, a half of something greater than himself, because his favorite color is green and he doesn't like mushrooms but he eats them anyway, because between the two of them is a link-

" **Soul** **!"**

And when his meister calls, he will respond in turn. Her name falls out of his mouth like it's been there the whole time, waiting for his lips to part. Maka. Maka. Maka. His throat burns with a roar. He shakily reaches for her with the link, like an arm he has only recently noticed he possesses, and explosively connects with her soul.

She's there, but she's distracted and calling for help. He needs to get up! Get up, get up, get off the damn floor, he's so sick of being on the floor! He can't see them in the dark, but he knows he has feet  _somewhere_ _._  His shoes squeal with a loud scuff that he's familiar with.

Ah. Tile.

Soul knows where he is, now. He's been usurped by the demon. He can sense the imp with Maka, and that's why she's making all sorts of faint, struggling noises. Shit, has she been resonating with him? Well, she must be, if she's here.

Forcing himself to run, Soul throws his arms out in front of himself, praying he's going in the right direction and that he won't run into anything painful. His hand comes into contact with a disgusting, gooey mush of fabric and hot, burning wetness, the smell thick with copper and a sweet rancidness that makes him want to turn around and run. Curtains of blood, and he doesn't need light to guess what color they are. It takes everything he has to dig through it and not forget his name again, halfway swimming and floundering through them. They drip down his face, weighing down his clothes and soul, seeping into his shoes and heart.

Curiously, his wrists begin to burn. Gasping through the curtains, he looks between the rivers of black flowing over his vision and is shocked to see his cufflinks shining brightly, like little pinpoints of fiery supernovas. Even better, the Black Blood avoids them, sizzling and evaporating at contact. It hurts like hell, having the small treble and bass clefs searing into his skin, but if he keeps them near he can avoid at least some of the insanity surrounding him.

He bites his lip to keep from laughing. Every second he's inside this mess, he feels his body become more infected. His fingers and toes are going numb. Closer! He's closer! Her soul is stronger the further he dives, the lights from his wrists extending into blades that feel second-nature to him.

Soul feels his meister's anger and desperation and determination to  _not_ _take_ _this_ _shit_ _!_  How is she here? Can she hear him? He's coming for her!

" _Fight_ _the_ _blood_ _!"_ comes her faint voice to his mind.  _"_ _Don_ _'_ _t_ _let_ _it_ _win_ _!"_

What? He'd love to, but it's not that simple. He can't do anything on his own. Not without her. Haven't they discussed this already? But as Soul passes through the last of the falling maze of blood and velvet, he sees himself and Maka in a struggling embrace.

No. That's not him. The demon wears his skin, using his hands to tenderly touch what is not his! He knows this dream, knows how it ends, and he will not take this shit either. He's a weapon, god damn it, and he has a partner.

"HANDS OFF, ASSHOLE!"

Maybe the act of wanting to deck the prick in the face is enough for whatever Maka needs (she has a plan, right? They need one almost as much as he needs to figure out what the _fuck_  is going on), because the woman howls a fierce cry, and Soul is suddenly blinded by bright, blazing wings. He's hit by gushing air, the sound of rushing wind quickly jackknifing into an almost unbearable roar.

He barely sees Not-Soul flung off his meister like the wrong end of a magnet, smashing into the gramophone. The debris of old, shattered records rains down on Little Ogre. Soul's never been so happy to see the demon destroying the Black Room. Maka is here- she will put it back right for him.

The light from her is so bright, and Soul's wrists are aching, blistering with whatever it is that Maka channels through everything in fury. Distracted by the pain lacing through his hands and forearms, he doesn't see the attack coming from his angry parasite. Curtains and blood wrap around his body and heart, constricting and choking him.

"It's your turn this time!" comes his stolen voice. Maka shouts in warning, but it's too late. Soul is violently flung back through the hell hole he had just painstakingly plowed through, damn it all to hell, and straight out of the Black Room itself.

He can't regain consciousness. He can't find his real body and break through this limbo he's trapped in. The demon has blocked him or maybe tethered him to this shitty subconscious. Soul tries to return to the Black Room, not looking forward to swimming through that blood again but willing if it will help Maka, but he finds it all gone. The room of his soul has vanished completely, the cufflinks naught but a dim glow.

"Fuck," he exclaims, searching but seeing nothing, not even rewarded with the echo of his own voice. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

But faintly, he's tugged. Thank god for being tugged. He follows the pull of his meister, who could be the last sane person on earth for all he knows- he doesn't know how much time has passed while he was in the black, or what kind of chaos he may have caused...

He runs in nothing, on nothing, going nowhere but surely forward to her, thinking of her laugh and her irritated glare and a palm on his scar to wish him safe. One step is nothing. The next step is nothing, and the next step is nothing. He may as well be on a treadmill made of pitch black sand and bullshit, and the next step he trips and lands face-first into pine needles.

"GAH WHAT THE phhhghgthhg!" Soul angrily spits vegetation out of his mouth. Wiping his lips with the back of a hand, he finds himself in a verdant forest. Looking around, all he sees is tall pines with reddish bark and a carpet of needles on the forest floor. It goes on endlessly in every direction but up, partially veiled glimpses of a multicolored sky peeking through swaying branches.

Alright. He gives up. Clearly he's dead or dying, and all this random crap is just the leftovers of his brain synapses firing one last time before the demon in his blood fully takes over and frolics in the shattered remains of his life.

" _You_ _'_ _re_ _not_ _dead_ _,_ _idiot_ _."_

Soul feels overdressed when he sees her. Barefoot and in a wispy, incorporeal shift of everything that shifts, Maka is somehow both childlike and intimidating. She can't seem to decide how to present herself. Whenever he glances away from her to eye the dizzying skyscraper trees surrounding them and back to her again, her hair flips between pigtails and wind-blown waves and straight dishwater blonde.

He thinks he already knows, but he asks anyway. "Where are we?"

" _My_ _place_ _,_ _I_ _think_ _,"_  she says, but her mouth doesn't open.

Standing with a groan, Soul tries to force his stiff fingers and joints to cooperate. Everything aches. He feels weary, but relief floods his pounding bloodstream at the sight of her. She's the one person who can un-fuck-up his shit.

She's worrying for him- he hears her concern from the creaking of trees and the whistling breeze through pine needles. Maka holds out a hand. He walks around it and impulsively kisses her instead, hands snarling in her crazy, unpredictable hair. Without her, he wouldn't even be conscious enough to regret never seeing her again, but she's here, and finally her mouth opens to his.

Her arms tightly return his embrace, and through them he feels that mild strangeness he'd felt whenever they touched in the flesh since last night- a buzzing, vibrating, almost electric current that digs into his blood and continually jolts his body.

"Soul," she laments against his lips, so he pulls away to rest their foreheads together. Her worry does not cease whatsoever. Maka's arms squeeze him firmly before leaning back and gravely searching his eyes.  _"_ _We_ _'_ _re_ _running_ _out_ _of_ _time_ _."_

Alright, fine. Back to business. He nods. "Catch me up?"

Maka grits her teeth, body tensing. "We're wreaking havoc," she blurts, voice tense.

He'd figured the demon in his body wouldn't be the most model citizen, but, "What? What do you mean  _'_ _we_ _'_?" She doesn't immediately answer, closing her eyes and grimacing as she passes along information from their insane-ridden reality, which presently involves the both of them falling in the rain to swing at Death the Kid, who is distracted by Maka alternately giggling and singing prime numbers.

"Also, Stein might've lost an arm."  
"Maka..."  
"I'm sure he can put it back on later!  
" _Maka_ _-"  
_ "Black Star is really mad at you right now, by the way."

" _ **Maka**_ _ **!**_ " Soul barks out impatiently. "Why are you insane? You should be... immune..." His voice falls away, staring curiously at her face. It flies by her thoughts like a little bird, but he catches it just in time. Shit. "You made a deal."

He watches her delicate jaw tighten like steel, the wind of her soul gaining momentum high in the treetops. Maka's ire answers for her.

Soul grasps her bare shoulders and holds her at arm's distance, disbelieving. "You made a  _deal_ _?_  Wh- Are you stupid?" He stumbles further away from her, coming to terms that this is everything he had always wanted to avoid. She's infected!  _He_  has infected her. The thought makes him sick with despair.

Maka's voice is cross and harsh. "I'm doing the best I can, okay?" Her pigtails re-form into soft waves, hard eyes evaporating into something thoughtful. "It felt- It feels like this is the right thing."

She's crazy! (Literally!) Why hadn't she just captured him and retreated? She gave up her sanity on what? A hunch? So reckless! So stupid! He feels out of breath as he hisses out, "How the hell is 'insanity' the right thing? Maka,  _neither_ _of_ _us_ _are_ _in_ _the_ _lead_ _!"_

"I found you, didn't I?" she replies, quiet, calm, and almost convincing if he ignores her fretful, rushed panic steadily building in her heart.

"Well  **un** -find me." He turns around to desperately find any way out of Maka's soul. His being here probably isn't helping matters. "I'll give myself back and refund your fucking sanity until, until,  _..._ _you_ _get_ _a_ _clue_ _,_  and figure out what to do while you're not  **hacking** **up** **people** **."**  Soul stomps off in a random direction, but it seems like he can't get away from her no matter how many trees he flees around. Every time he turns, she's still standing there, willing him to understand.

" _It_ _won_ _'_ _t_ _work_ _."_  Maka hugs her arms and looks to the sky, lips pressed into a grim thread holding back her feelings. " _I_ _hit_ _you_ _with_ _Marie_ _and_ _it_ _definitely_ _hurt_ him,  _but_ _it_ _also_ _hurt_ _you_ _._ _And_ _he_ _was_ _still_ _there_ _."_

She hadn't wanted to harm him; he gets it. And he'll concede that if their positions had been switched, he would've done anything to keep her from being under the Black Blood's hold any longer than necessary. He shouldn't look at her face. He does it anyway. Trees creak and groan around them, wind howling like an approaching storm. He realizes, apart from these noises, his meister's forest is devoid of any sounds- no birds or little furry animals normally found in a forest are present. It's unsettling.

"He wouldn't go away, Soul. He said that you-" She clutches her heart with a groan a moment before the earth trembles. Any thoughts he'd had about leaving are immediately abandoned as he returns to where he should have always been. He's reminded of terrified, panicking moments in their bathroom- she hunched over with pain, he wondering what the hell to do and who to kill and if his blood is responsible. Except this time he knows.

She recovers after a moment, grasping his tense arms steadying her. "I need to show you something."

Maka climbs trees fairly well for someone who seems to be suffering from Black Blood-induced heart failure, and he's both worrisome and envious because his fingers and toes still feel numb and he's always been pretty shitty at tree-climbing. He's tempted to use some strategically-placed scythes to help him along, but he doesn't know if stabbing what makes up his meister's soul is a sound course of action.

God damn, this is a long way up. The forest floor is nearly hidden from tree branches, and Maka still climbs ahead of him, the link shuddering with discomfort in tandem with the earth. She shrugs off his worried questions, so he just concentrates on moving his arms and legs and not plummeting to the ground like he has the tendency to do.

Beyond her, the treetops thin, and more of the sky is revealed. It's a bleeding, paint-splattered mix of blues and reds and oranges, like a watercolor sunset had been planned but was jumbled by accident, or they're stuck in some saturated nebula. Maybe that's it. He thinks he sees little pinpoints of light, almost like stars. Finally, Maka stops at a branch that looks a lot more flimsy than it feels, easily walking across it without fear of losing her balance. She makes room for him, but he doesn't immediately notice, because the view is a field of calm pines being torn to pieces.

" _We_ _'_ _re_ _still_ _resonating_ _,_ _so_ _I_ _can_ _'_ _t_ _completely_ _escape_ _him_ _."_

Little Ogre is more of a giant ogre, now. He is a black horned beast, pulling up trees as easily as one would pull up weeds. The sky bleeds to darkness above him, little sky lights snuffed out like candles by the black. The Ogre searches for her. Or him. Them.

Maka speaks beside him, hand slipping into his. "He said you had no will to fight him."

Soul pulls his eyes away to look at her in confusion, but she stares ahead, face tense with the aching that pulls at him through their connection. "What?"

She shakes her head. "I dunno. But, earlier today, you said you... you embrace it. The Black Blood."

" **No** **,"** he nearly shouts, gut clenching with denial. "Not like this! I meant... well you know what I meant!" His head whips back to watch the demon of his blood slowly destroy his meister's soul. "This isn't it at all." Maybe he really had let his guard down.

Her hand tightens around his, and he clenches his teeth at how it burns his deadened fingers. She notices this and tries to pull away in alarm, but he refuses to let go of her ever again.

"Look, Soul, I don't think I can just undo the deal."

Yeah, as they watch Little Ogre demolish Maka's forest, he's beginning to understand what she means.

Maka serenely watches herself be annihilated while her thoughts try to fit together puzzle pieces that don't match in hopes to come up with a plan. "Papa and the others are trying really hard, but we're running out of time."

Something about this statement allows a thought to simmer and bubble up to the surface of his mind. Sid-sensei and window boxes, lecturing him about time.  _"_ _Isn_ _'_ _t_ _the_ _clock_ _still_ _running_ _?"_

"It's not over," he hears himself say. Soul pulls on Maka's hand slightly to get her full attention. A loud thunderclap of their sanity being eaten shakes the earth, but they hold each other steady. "Sid said that it's not over yet," he repeats. "The test's still going. For me."

Her eyebrows furrow, but her voice doesn't sound surprised. "It didn't end at Madagascar," she says, not quite a question.

Soul shakes his head slowly, looking back to Little Ogre. "Do you think..? Maybe this is it."

Maka makes an unsure noise in the back of her throat, tiredly lowering down to a crouch. Her hand slips from his, but lightly clasps his shin instead. "I don't think Mister Kraken was planned," she wryly replies. "In fact, no. It can't be. Shinigami admitted that it wasn't part of a test."

Her words keep bringing random things to the forefront of his thoughts, or maybe his brain is still booting up from being lost in unconsciousness. A memory of the God of Death reflecting in a glass door flickers behind his eyes. "No... No, but something else is."  _"_ _She_ _helps_ _you_ _control_ _the_ _dark_ _,_ _yes_ _?"_

She catches a bit of his memories, guessing where they're leading. Maka lets out a shaky breath. "I've been  _trying_ , but he keeps getting closer. I can't," she grits out, angry with herself and the situation they're in.

It's a rickety, jerking effort, but he manages to crouch next to her, Maka's hand sliding from his shin to his foot. The words 'I can't' coming from his meister are not things that he can stomach easily. "Maka, c'mon you're the fuckin'...  _Anti_ _-_ _Demon_. I'm the easy target. You're the threat."

Maka's pigtails are back again. She mildly glares at him, releasing his shoe and bringing her hand up to faintly chop his head. "I told you before- the Blood is yours. I can't do it by myself. I only help you by amplifying..." She holds her head in her palms with a confused sigh. "No... the  _weapon_  amplifies the meister... I don't understand anymore." Silently she adds, _"_ _Uhg_ _,_ _I_ _can_ _'_ _t_ _think_ _!_ _My_ _head_ _hurts_ _."_  Her hands press against her skull like she's trying to keep it from bursting.

"You too, huh?" Soul settles his hand on her head as well, trying to help but feeling pretty useless. That same current courses through his skin, but he ignores the sting in favor of trying to figure shit out. Maka's appearance is quickly deteriorating. She looks about how he had felt after that weird episode at Shibusen's piano, when he'd tried to find her song.

What had that been about? Why had the doors been unlocked? Why had he felt invited to play? Why had he been able to recall any song but the one that's most important?

But there it is, the answer, burning so brightly before him that he feels idiotic for not seeing it sooner. The demon in a chair, bemoaning Soul's music.  _"_ _And_ _stop_ _playing_ _that_ _song_ _!_ _It_ _'_ _s_ _annoying_ _!"_

The dam breaks. His memories are as numerous and densely packed at the pines surrounding them. They shout to be acknowledged after everything Maka groans into her hands.

"Shinigami told me the weapon amplifies the meister-"  
" _I_ _like_ _Soul_ _'_ _s_ _music_ _."  
_ "-but I don't  **get** **it** **,**  and all I know is that until you came, I couldn't do anything against  _him_ _."  
_ " _-_ _the_ _only_ _way_ _I_ _'_ _ll_ _ever_ _get_ _hurt_ _is_ _when_ _you_ _'_ _re_ _not_ _around_ _to_ _help_ _me_ _."  
_ "I think unless you want to get rid of him, my wavelength means nothing."  
" _Some_ _things_ _you_ _gotta_ _do_ _for_ _yourself_ _."_

A lot of things fall in to place in half a second. Little Ogre continues to maim the forest and eating all the lights from the sky, and that's what glues it all together for him: Lights.

He understands. He's never liked the blood, because of the threat to his meister. But to himself, he'd never cared a whole lot, as long as Maka was safe. In fact, he even admitted to _embracing_  it, as long as he could stay with her. And yet despite how much he'd wanted to protect her, Soul realizes he has shittily shrugged off the burden of insanity and just handed it to Maka to deal with, instead of facing it himself.

He's a fucking Deathscythe! He's a demon scythe of Shinigami's, he's Maka's partner, he's  _Soul_ _Eater_ _._  He's a badass, and cool guys have to take care of their own shit before they can protect anyone else.

Candles burn brighter when she's near. No. When they're together. They are always stronger together. Right now, all he has is himself, Maka, and maybe just enough time to do something stupid. But that's how they do things, and that's all they need.

"You said the weapon amplifies the meister, right?"  
"Wh- yes? Shinigami said-"  
"We need to go back."

She breathes, the corners of her eyes tight with a headache. "Soul, we can't go back."

"I mean to the Black Room."

And finally, for the first time since she's brought him here, he hears birds. Maybe it's the equivalent to the record player in his mind, but there's a song chattering on the wind, just loud enough to be caught between the crashes and thunder of the Black Blood searching for them.

It's his song. Born only of his mind, for the two of them. "You need a weapon." And he knows just where to find it.

"No," she says, epiphanies and determination brightening her face as she stares into his. "I need only to play."

Grasping his hand once more, she perches on the branch, eyes closed, ready to take flight.


	28. A Million Tomorrows

A Million Tomorrows  
 **Maka**

* * *

They're buzzing like flies around her. She swats at them lazily, wicker chairs and what's left of a covered patio tossed into the rain like tumbleweeds. The flies avoid her irritation and buzz her again. She's already played with them enough, and now she's bored.

No, no, she's not  _bored_ , she's in control, whether he admits it or not. His hold over her is weak at best. They are going to help the rest of her team and are  **not**  going to hack off any more of her superiors' body parts like pulling wings off flies.

She's just prolonging the inevitable. Face it: she's not even close to being in control! Give  _in_. Quit stalling. She feels the immeasurable strength! There's no such thing as a 'superior' to her anymore.

Gritting her teeth, Maka forces her voice to life. "Black Star," she croaks out, one hand glued to Soul's scythe and the other creeping to her neck as if to choke her own words to silence.

Black Star is a little battered, but still stands strong and deadly, a hefty support beam from the demolished Gallows Mansion poised in his hands. He watches her carefully and angrily, because Tsubaki is still trapped in an enormous science experiment gone wrong, and Maka keeps him from going to her rescue.

He must see her internal struggle though, because he acknowledges her with a snarl. "Get your shit together, Maka," he says, or at least that's what she thinks he says. His voice is taking on that buzzing, secondary quality again.

"I need more time!" she hoarsely urges, unable to stop herself from walking forward, predatory.

"#####?"

She doesn't know what he says, so she cries out, "Stall!" as she swings for his head.

His heated shout is both frustrated and skeptical, but again in that insignificant language she can't translate anymore. Black Star manages to deflect her swing, yet another of his makeshift weapons demolished. His face is etched with fury for having to waste his energy, countering with his wavelength straight into her sternum.

It doesn't even sting, though the force of it sends her flying clear past the monster, Stein, Marie, and her father. Maka rolls easily to her feet, her weapon uncomfortably warming in her hands. She has no advice or words of encouragement for her comrades, and even if she did, _he_  has sealed her throat shut again.

An errant tentacle of the Kraken hurls toward her and she slices through this as easily as sponge cake.

Hmm. She's kind of hungry. Distracted, she wonders how these would taste fried. She smiles, chuckling as the slimy, globular mass crashes to the ground, splashing green tinted water to the sky.

" _Calamari_ _for_ _everyone_ _~"_

* * *

Is Soul expecting her to sprout wings? She won't bother with that. She just jumps.

"Whoa  _shit_ _!"_

Her eyes are closed, but she knows they plummet to the forest floor. She isn't worried- at least not about that.

The demon extends his powers across the distance. Through her blood, little claws seek her heart, but she breathes through it, pushing this world of hers away and sliding back into Soul's. Maka keeps a firm grip on her partner's hand all the while, because she knows he's afraid to be alone in the dark.

They're getting close when falling down feels like flying up, when pine smells like wood polish, and when birds begin to sing in C-sharp Minor. She expects to see a familiar room, but opening her eyes gifts her with such an inky darkness Maka wonders if she's gone blind. In the gloom, she catches the faintest outlines of broken records and armchair splinters.

But Soul is at her side, standing on a single black tile adjacent to her red.

"...Are you sure I'm not dead?"

Maka suffers a disorienting moment of doubt, which washes over her in a knee-trembling wave. She shakes this away, fingers tightening with her partner's. "The blood doesn't want you dead," she murmurs, clinging to logic like a lifeline.

She tastes the demon's ever-approaching intent, teasing the edges of her awareness. The longer they stand here, the faster the Blood will gain on them. The Oni is more familiar with these stomping grounds not filled with the essence of her anti-demon wavelength. Her headache is the constant beat of a drum that is the deathmarch of their sanity. They're fish in a barrel, here.

"We should find the piano," Soul says, breaking her down-spiraling train of thought. "...Or what's left of it."

Right. Focus is a must in order to push aside the persistent distraction from the unnatural pulse in her blood. She also can't dwell on whatever trouble she's causing in reality. Maka draws in a shaky breath, her eyes falling to their joined hands. She sees it then, a faint glow that makes her violently throw their hands up and forward for inspection, a slight haze of Deja Vu settling over her.

"Ah! What the-" Gold shimmers from Soul's wrist, its light casting a weak shine on their hands, bouncing off the tiles below them. "Oh. Yeah they were doin' this earlier too," he slowly admits, holding up his opposite hand as well.

"It's burning you," she observes, sharing his discomfort. His fingers tighten in hers.

"Good," he firmly replies. And then, in his thoughts,  _"_ _I_ _'_ _m_ _more_ _afraid_ _when_ _it_ _doesn_ _'_ _t_ _."_  Soul moves forward, stepping off his black tile. Another one haphazardly flies in from the darkness to carry his weight.  _"'_ _Cause_ _when_ _it_ _doesn_ _'_ _t_ _,_ he's  _winning_ _."_

Her hand slides away from his fingers and into the crook of his elbow. He escorts her up, spiraling in a gradual corkscrew, his stairs infected while hers remain crimson. She doesn't know where they go, but they need to be anywhere but in one place and up is a good direction as any.

She's prom queen again, though slightly less hobo-ish. She even has a dress this time; it slowly bleeds backwards, the darkness of the Blood's corruption seeping in from the whispering edges of her shift fluttering around her knees, soaking up closer to her heart. Not even two weeks have passed since that first anxious trip up the stairs, but that moment feels years away.

They've come so far to this point. Twelve days ago she had never planned to be doing anything other than berating Soul for leaving his boxers on the bathroom floor, but now they are here: planning, on the fly, a way to fight the Black Blood in a way that they had never considered, with a weapon that isn't one at all, for an audience that has been waiting for a very long time.

They're all waiting, and she needs only to play.

Through their resonance, Soul had given her a glimpse of his recent memories, and she gleaned the way everything slowly orbited around the central image of a black piano. Between them, an idea is hatching. She's not sure if they have the slightest chance in crazy lunatic hell of making it back to sanity, but if it gives them the opportunity to piss off the demon, she'll take it. She'll take it and  _make_ _it_ _work_ _,_  because their friends are stalling for them, and she owes her papa a dance.

But they have to find the piano, first and foremost. They continue up, her bare feet silent on the tile stairs compared to her weapon's shoes. There is thunder, ever present, and she can't decide if it's from the real world or this surreal space. As they climb, Maka senses Soul's words half a breath before he breaks the silence.

"So," he starts uncomfortably, his demeanor tinged with a swash of bitter-flavored remorse, "remember how pissed I got when Stein bitched at us 'bout Swaying?"

In between distant rumblings of thunder, she thinks she hears the faintest of notes chirping from the depths. "Yes, I remember." As if she could forget; it had only been the day before yesterday.

Soul sucks in a deep breath, his voice coming out a shade reluctant. "As much as I hate it, think I'm gonna hafta possess you again."

"I know."

"I  _know_  you know, but felt like I should say it anyway. ...I won't let you go crazy. Well. More."

She laughs even though she probably shouldn't. She's fully aware of the moral battle her weapon is having with himself. "I know."

"Urgh, okay smartass. Can hear you callin' me uncool in there," he grumbles. Maka's fingers squeeze around his forearm in an attempt to reassure him. "Man, already got you in trouble, and gonna put you in even more, and that's not something I'm okay with. So I'm sorry. For all this."

Maka hums and shakes her head, pigtails swaying over her ears. "It's okay. Stein even said to only use it when 'extremely necessary', and I think this counts. There's nothing to apologize for."

"Still, this is really shitty-"

"I got you in this mess and I'll get you out," she promises.

Soul scoffs, his shoe squealing on a tile. "You're full of shit."

" _..._ _You_ _'_ _re_  full of shit!" Maka blurts back.

"No. You. Are full of shit." He looks over his shoulder and meets her deepening scowl. "Look, let's just get out of the mess  _together_ _,_ and leave it at that?"

Her mouth eases into a smile despite her best efforts. "Deal."

Maka raises her eyes, trying to discern if they are actually going anywhere apart from in circles. She squints, focusing on a faint shimmering. She's seen this before, somehow. Her pace quickens, hand jerking on Soul's arm.  _"_ _Look_ _!_ _Above_ _!"_

It's a ceiling of dark, murky glass, which stretches in all directions to disappear in the darkness. Faint reflections of their upturned faces stare back down at them, backlit by cufflinks. She recognizes this view now, having been here years ago. They're underwater, sort of, the film above them the physical edge of insanity. Soul had pulled her through that thick skin to save her once.

They take the steps two at a time, tiles rapidly flying in under their feet as they eagerly approach the barrier. Shadows oddly shift and churn beyond the ceiling, but it is too cloudy to discern much of anything. The two of them are equally out of breath when they reach the top, Maka's headache throbbing in earnest. Soul reaches above and runs the flat of his palm along the surface. It's smooth as glass, the gold light from his wrist reflecting from the surface as it would polished marble.

A cursory punch has her weapon grimacing and shaking his smarting knuckles.

"Worth a shot," he says, though he's a lot more vulgar about it in his mind. "We gotta get through. If the piano's anywhere, it's up there." Silently, he adds,  _"_ _Hope_ _it_ _'_ _s_ _still_ _in_ _one_ _piece_ _."_

Maka looks for any break in the surface that they could possibly take advantage. "You don't think he can stop me from playing?"

"He'll probably do anything to  _keep_  you from playing."

She nods, reaching up. The divider is warm to the touch. "Which song should we play," she asks, short nails tapping the ceiling. Abruptly, the surface lurches, rippling outward from the epicenter of her touch, spreading rapidly out of sight.

"You already know," Soul smirks at her. Little phrases of music weave in and out of her mind's grasp.  _"_ _You_ _'_ _ve_ _always_ _known_ _."_

The ripples swell, gleaming with refracted light, and the section directly above Maka's palm sinks inward, retreating from her fingers. The barrier softens, becoming liquid. "Time for a swim, I guess?" she says apprehensively to her partner. He grins back before touching the surface again, which remains liquid for him instead of returning to stone.

"Cool," he says half a second before he shouts, jerked from her line of sight and smashing through the spiral staircase. The shock of it knocks the air from her lungs, or maybe his, and she gasps out what might have been his name as she teeters, stranded, on what's left of her little tile platform. Shattered tiles float about, spiraling away, drawing her eyes to the shadows as she frantically searches for her partner.

The demon has arrived en masse, forming from the dark and splitting into hundreds of long fingered, snub clawed, outstretched hands that rumble with their own internal thunder. She's half a second away from jumping off her tile and beating the living shit out of the Blood even if she has no idea how, but she freezes as light blazes through the dark as quick as a lightning strike.

Several yards below her, she finally sees Soul, his wrists burning in a hot, golden light that stretches into thin, iridescent blades extending from his arms. They're a blur, searing oval patterns into her eyes as her weapon slices through the claws of his captor in the best way he knows. Soul fights for his freedom, suspended in weightless darkness, and Maka clenches her hands into fists, burning with her partner's discomfort. She wants to help!

He calls to her mentally, somewhat distracted.  _"_ _This_ _is_ _the_ _part_ _where_ _you_ _ **go**_ _ **.**_ _"_

Like hell! Splitting up right now sounds like the least possible good idea ever, especially after how long it had taken just to find him in the first place. But she knows they're pressed for time, and a hasty glimpse into reality shows her fist slowly connecting with Black Star's face in a perfectly executed, slow-motion uppercut, with most of the phrase 'don't put random things in your mouth, idiot' having already left her grinning lips.

" _See_ _?_ _We_ _don_ _'_ _t_ _have_ _time_ _._ _These_ _guys_ _are_ _easy_ _._ _I_ _'_ _ll_ _be_ _right_ _behind_ _you_ _."_

Says the next person to die in every action film ever! Maka sucks in a lungful of air, ready to vent her anger at his suggestion, but instead she shouts, "Don't let the blood win!" for what is probably the twentieth time today. At least he's conscious enough to respond this time.

" _Yeah_ _,_ _yeah_ _._ _What_ _kind_ _of_ _guy_ _do_ _you_ _take_ _me_ _for_ _?"_

Maka grinds her teeth, forcing herself to turn away and face the ceiling.  _"_ _A_ _lazy_ _one_ _,"_  she mentally jabs back, though her nervous heart isn't into it. Behind her, she hears his battle- sounds of claws on metal, of fabric tearing.

His response is choppy, his mind concentrating foremost on parrying and counterattacks.  _"_ _You_ _'_ _d_ _think_ _..._ _after_ _last_ _night_ _I_ _'_ _d_ _'_ _ve_ _earned_ _any_ _title_ _besides_ _'_ _lazy_ _'~"_

This is so not the time to be thinking about that-

" _Welcome_ _to_ _ **my**_ _ **life**_ _ **."**_

Her cheeks warm as she jumps into the liquid ceiling, kicking herself for realizing that she's now on the hunt for a piano she'd been helplessly clutching this morning.  _"_ _If_ _I_ _had_ _a_ _book_ _right_ _now_ _,_ _I_ _swear_ _,"_  she shoots to him before the waters envelop her body.

The moment she's fully encased, something crashes through her, as if the ripples her anti-demon wavelength had caused have finally made their way back to her, rolling her along in them. A flash of clarity rushes in from every direction, and when she involuntarily gasps, she breathes in stormy air, eyes blinded by rain and smoke.

* * *

There's a periodic struggle; her consciousness fights for footholds in reality while her insanity shoves her off a cliff. What is she doing here, again? The earth shakes and the sky leaks, the tumult of sounds bombarding her senses. Before her, Mister Labcoat is buzzing orders to the other insects, though she doesn't understand why. Who would follow a fly with only one wing?

Ugh, why can't she control her body? She's stuck in this crazed version of herself, unable to even look where she desires. Where is Papa? What is everyone doing? What is  _she_  doing? She sways, drunk on fearlessness, the scythe in her hands whistling through the air at random. Is that her voice?

"Hakase, hakase! Ready for some  _extra_ _lessons_ _?"_

She can feel Labcoat (Stein! His name is Stein!) resonate with the Bulldozer ( _Marie_ ), and her face splits into a wide grin. Finally, it's time to play! Her feet kick in the puddles that have gathered, splashing rainwater towards the pair. Soul hates the rain. He hates the disorganization, the white noise of the thoughtless, patternless chaos. But he just never understood! Not like  _she_  does! Now she sees it all. Hears it all. It is a perfect, divine, symphonic accompaniment to her raucous laughter and the sounds of her scythe sparking along rubble.

Even insane, their teamwork is unmatched by any other pair. Except it's not truly Soul she's with- it's the demon, whispering in her blood, resonating too deeply with her heart, infecting her sanity. The scythe manifests jet-black and so much darker than her father, and yet still only heavy as gossamer in her burning hands, both parts equal rejection and giddy deliverance. If she doesn't take control soon, Stein is probably going to lose more body parts. He's already at a disadvantage, missing the one arm, which is probably crawling around somewhere-

Oh. She looks down to find the arm in question, nearly obscured from the rushing water, gripping her tightly by the ankle. She swats at the annoying grub with her scythe, but the squirmy thing is abnormally quick, splashing around her feet. Darkened blood colors the water, the irritating arm having hand-stitched her to the pavement below.

"Ahah- that tickles."

It's the first time Maka's ever wanted to cheer for losing. Stein has distracted her long enough with his disembodied sewing job that he's able to close in and land a solid blow with Marie to the gut. It hurts about as much as a headbutt from a cloud, but she's surprised to note that she's soaring through the air, rain pelting the back of her head, her feet having ripped from her shoes and stitches. Perhaps Stein has enough insanity in him to actually pack a punch?

How exciting! She doesn't bother trying to soften her return to the earth, instead plummeting like a stone to the playing field. The ground gives way to her easily, her impact causing shudders that feel like the world wishes to dance with her, personally. A cackle bubbles from her, the scythe still clenched in her fist vibrating back like they've shared an inside joke.

She bounds from her crater, eyes zeroing in on her target, which crawls towards her. As much as she tries to stop herself, Maka is only a spectator as her already healed foot rears back and swiftly punts Stein's severed arm in the general direction of Mr. Kraken.

"#### #### ######?" Labcoat says, and she turns her head to the side, trying to figure out if she cares or not.

"Soul," Maka hears herself say, even though it's technically not Soul she's speaking to. Her heart twists to see the reflection of his face in her weapon's blade, knowing that grin is a borrowed expression. "Does he sound out of tune to you?" she asks, chin jerking in Stein's direction.

Too many teeth show with his reply. "Absolutely."

Screw-head prepares another attack, but she's in no rush, walking casually to an exposed metal pipe jutting from the broken foundation of Kid's mansion. Like a tuning fork (tuning fork? She must have borrowed that idea from Soul, because she doesn't recall ever having known what one was before now), Maka smashes the scythe against the pipe, the metallic crash of sound morphing into a dangerous hum that causes Stein to stop in his tracks. His glasses shatter, revealing the deranged look spreading on his face. The Bulldozer retreats from his hand, trying to hold him back.

The vibrations from the weapon play up her hands and in her arms, messing with her head. The shockwave of insanity pushes her consciousness down below, rejecting any logic she tries to apply to the situation. Maka finds herself delegated to subconscious duty, still swimming in the muck of Soul's soul.

She should have taken a bigger breath before jumping in; there's a lot more distance between sane and insane than she remembers. Her lungs begin to burn, legs kicking frenetically behind her to reach the surface. Her forearms and shoulders begin to ache, but she thinks these are echoes from Soul, stemming from his battle with the Black Blood she had left behind.

" _You_ _gonna_ _make_ _it_ _?"_  he worriedly asks, sharing her body's building desperation.

She doesn't know, but it's too late to turn back. Can someone drown in a partially imaginary world? She doesn't want to find out. To make matters worse, the longer she's stuck in this in-between, the havoc they continue to wreak in reality seems to double. Time is passing more quickly out there than it is in here; she feels like she's been swimming for an eternity, suffocating in slow motion.

Hasn't she caused enough damage? She needs to do something that doesn't recklessly endanger anyone else for once! Everyone is is trying to stop catastrophe, while she does what? Stands in her unresponsive body and watches herself attempt to behead her friends? Each stroke of her arm is a twisted, mind-bending battle with her teammates, and each kick another duel with Black Star, or Kid, or Stein, or her father. Heavens, her father, please don't be letting her harm her  _Papa_ _._

So desperately she wishes to know that he is safe, she's wrenched back to reality again, reeling from the passage of time. The rain is only a mist, afternoon light fading to be replaced by lightning strikes. She garners just enough control to wrench her eyes to the side to search for Spirit, relief crashing into her when she sees him with all his body parts.

An exploding pumpkin smashes into her face, and her control is greedily usurped by insanity.

Oh. She'd forgotten about the purple rodent. Maka laughs and wipes soot and gourd guts off her face.

"### ####-c##n, loo# #ight ove# here!"

She tosses her head angrily, brain rattling in her skull. She can almost understand what Blair is saying. Eyes narrowed, she stalks towards the magical cat floating on a jack-o-lantern. Blair's golden eyes remind her of... little lights?

"Bu-tan is very disappointed in you, Maka-chan!"

A hollow laugh clears her throat, hands clenching around her death scythe. Maka doesn't even have enough time to tell herself 'stop!' before her mouth opens on its own, blurts, "You're not my mother," and chuckles heartlessly while Blair's little gold eyes widen with shock.

No! What is she saying? She doesn't feel that way! Not exactly... Of course the cat isn't her mother, her  _mother_  is her mother, but she does love Blair very much and the pain etched on her roommate's feline face is not something she's ever wanted to cause!

The cat shapeshifts into her humanesque body, standing defiantly on her floating platform. "I don't have to be your mother to care about you!" she shouts, summoning pumpkin projectiles that Maka knocks away easily.

"Oh, that's right, you're just the Albarn 'liaison', right? The affair with nine lives!"

"...Affair?" Blair stalls in hesitation, magic swirling in her hands. She opens her mouth to retort, but without her efforts to keep a certain giant monster occupied, she's interrupted by a vengeance-seeking tentacle.

The cat witch hisses and directs her floating pumpkin out of the way. After watching the slimy appendage collide with the ground, Maka suffers a sudden, intense boredom, and stalks away for something better. Her Perception is picking up three familiar signatures all in one place; the flies are having a little weakling party that she absolutely must crash.

Yet another pumpkin lands in front of her, gigantic and lit like a fuse. It blocks her path, oversized jack-o-lantern face mocking her. She snarls, dancing from one foot to the other before skewering the damned thing on the end of her scythe and flinging it out of her way to explode elsewhere. To her annoyance, three more replace it. Her head snaps up to the source, teeth bared.

"Eight lives, Maka-chan!" the rodent calls overhead, a fourth explosive gourd growing high above them both. "You've killed Bu-tan once already, remember?"

Maka knows this is a distraction, another ploy to buy time, and hopes that her insane self doesn't catch on to this as easily. Planting the staff of her weapon into the ground, she uses the scythe as leverage to vault in the air, landing on a jack-o-lantern to await the oncoming detonation.

"And Death Scythe has been divorced for years!" Blair adds, hurling the fourth bomb below. Maka rides the resulting explosion, fire and burning pumpkin flesh tickling her skin. She knows that! She doesn't really have a problem with her roommate and her father doing  _things_ anymore, but she doesn't have control over her words. The insanity is polluting her with doubts and insecurities, trying to infiltrate through the weaknesses of others. The weapon in her hands grows, an obsidian version of Witch Hunting chittering with anticipation.

The cat watches her approach in the sky, the look on her face disbelieving, her confidence in what she'd thought was Maka's inability to personally attack her melting away to be replaced with panic.

"One down, eight to go!" Maka crows happily, swinging her demon weapon around.

She then hears the sound of dual pulse-cannons charging, and a supernatural voice; one that seems to incorporate all vocal ranges at once-

" _ **YOU**_ _ **WILL**_ _ **NOT**_ _ **DEFILE**_ _ **SUCH**_ _ **A**_ _ **PERFECT**_ _ **NUMBER**_ _ **."**_

Being shot by a Death God is something else entirely. The blast throws the three of them (six, including weapons) in opposite directions. Her ears hum with a high-pitched ringing, her body coming to rest in her latest crater. She's not sure which part of her is in control here, but the longer she's out of the picture, the better.

The insects' voices shout at each other, and she watches the flashing, lightning-struck sky, the smell of singed hair keeping her company. She feels the gaping holes in her chest quickly seal shut. That brat is going to get another serenade of prime numbers.

"Kid, I can't cover him alone, get back to your post!"

"What in my father's name  _are_ _you_ _doing_ _?"_

"We're getting my arm back."

"Do somethin'  _useful_  while you're in there,  **screwball** **!"**

"Is this really necessary?"

"YOU IDIOT KOHAI!"

Sheesh, the weaklings are loud! Her eyes sluggishly roll to the side where the closest fly buzzes. They focus on some dirty piece of dark fabric, oddly shaped like... what? Her head cranes upright to see better.

It's a cross. Upside-down. Her father's tie.  _Close_ _her_ _eyes_ _,_ _close_ _her_ _eyes_ _,_ just shut them, she doesn't need to see anything! Her mouth is already opening before she's fully standing, teetering for balance.

"The  _Worst_ _."_

Spirit defends Black Star, warding off the monster's arms that loom too near, while the meister repeatedly uses Soul Force into the Kraken's side. The monster's mottled skin lurches and blisters behind her father. His suit and hair are in severe disarray. His worried eyes find her.

"Maka! Are you hurt? You-"

"Did you think that flowers would redeem you? Did you try that with Mama, too?"

Oh God, what is she  _saying_ _?_  Why this, of all times and places? Her father falters a moment, eyes widening before deflecting one of Kid's bullets that had flown astray.

"Honey, you don't know what you're saying."

Except she does! And she can't make it stop. She's trying to find a weak spot in him and can feel herself readying the scythe glued to her hand for one single opening.

"Deadbeat. Pathetic. Feeble.  _Worthless_ _."_

 _Don_ _'_ _t_ _listen_ _to_ _her_ _,_  she silently pleads, her body ambling forward without her consent.  _Keep_ _it_ _together_ _!_

Spirit's jaw clenches, his eyes only leaving hers to focus on slicing slimy monster limbs. "Even if that's true," he says, in between the crashes of thunder, gunfire, and Black Star's efforts, "even if you believe that, I still know this isn't you."

Maka steps closer, scythe brandishing through the shortening space between them. Why isn't he running? This is not the time for heartwarming speeches- doesn't he understand that she's going to kill him?

"I know it, because I've known you your whole life-"

The rodent is back again, from where she'd been blasted to, and desperately attacks her with more ineffective pumpkin bombs. She knocks these away, some right back at the witch, crosshairs firmly locked on the Death Scythe before her.

"-and I love my daughter very much-"

She still owes him a dance!

"-and I know-"

Stop it! Stop stop stop, she can't  _breathe_ _-_

"-that she loves me too!"

Soul's blade whistles towards his meister's father's face, and somewhere, in a suffocating in-between world of his subconscious, Maka's heart thunders with a storm of urgency. Her vision is tunneling, darkening around the edges, as her muscles cry for oxygen as though they are consuming themselves.

She's dimly aware of her partner diving in after her, his mental shout not so much her name as it is a burst of color, but she can't focus on that right now.

The phrase ' _like_ _father_ _,_ _like_ _daughter_ _',_  echoes through her entire being, and Maka's fingers brush the edge of a delicately carved, wooden leg of a piano bench. She grabs this and yanks violently. The displacement surges her up through the waters, and she feels the surface break across her face.

For a moment, she's all unbridled terror, not knowing if she's bought enough time. As she regains enough control of her body to violently shudder and cease all forward movement, she can only focus on the sound of steel sinking into flesh. It's that sickening, wet mush meeting air by way of a blade designed for the very purpose; a noise that can only be associated with 'guts'.

"Papa?" she calls, surprised her voice is her own to use.

The moment ends, and her eyes focus on a distinct lack of her father. The end of her scythe's blade- frozen, poised in her hands- is wedged in a pumpkin. Her arms quiver, a battle for sanity warring through her bloodstream as she tries to figure things out. The earth heaves and rumbles again, this time from the eastern wall of Kid's mansion plummeting to the ground like an afterthought.

Death Scythe retreats, keeping a wary eye on her and continuing to cover for the loud midget. The purple rat is back, now perching on her prey's shoulder. They flee! She should go after them.  _Give_ _chase_ _._

 **No** **.**  She refuses. Maka takes a step back.

"We- we're almost there," she cries, desperate to tell her father the plan she's not quite sure will work. "Just a little longer! Keep away from m-"

A hand slides over her mouth, warm, familiar, maddening. Her blood seems to thicken and clot at the touch.  _"_ _That_ _'_ _s_ _enough_ _of_ _that_ _,_ _I_ _think_ _,"_  says the Oni. He's shifted out of Soul's weapon body, the pumpkin he'd been attached to splattering at their feet. One arm casually drapes over her locked shoulders to keep their binding resonance intact.

She's glad to see the demon look irked, but the small victory is consumed by the despair of her loss of control so easily taken by a mere touch. It's as if she's naught but a statue, a trapped audience in a terrible theater, watching a horror unfold. Her eyes flit between her father and her roommate, wanting to scream anything along the lines of 'run the hell  _away_ '. Get Stein, get Kid, get anyone that can actually keep her at bay for even half a second-

" _You_ _want_ _to_ _say_ _something_ _?_ _Here_ _._ _Please_ _."_

But his influence is already too much. Her eyes are puppeteered, forced to focus on something random to divert her thoughts. Back to the purple rat, ears flattened, golden eyes glaring. "Cat in the hat," she blurts. Damn it!

" _We_ _don_ _'_ _t_ _talk_ _to_ _weaklings_ _,_ _now_ _do_ _we_ _?"_

Her head jerkily shakes from side to side, neck no longer responding to her will.

" _That_ _'_ _s_ _better_ _."_  Lightning strikes far in the distance, and he says,  _"_ _You_ _may_ _as_ _well_ _give_ _up_ _,"_  as his sights focus on her father.

* * *

Booted out of reality again, Maka flails, scrabbling for the piano bench, which overturns with her effort. The legs become supporting masts that she clings to, coughing up the contents of her lungs. Hair plastered to her face, she tries to make sense of what's going on in this chaotic wave pool she's erupted in.

The Black Room is a hurricane at sea, broken furniture cresting atop thick waves of Black Blood, curtains swirling and tangling on long candlestick holders. The surface of the water is littered with shattered records and sheet music, dimly lit by residual light that seeps from the piano that Soul insists is vital to their plan. But if it's not one emergency, it's another: the instrument is floating around like a half-sunken ship, a gaping hole in the top spewing black water like a broken fire hydrant, flooding the room. The Oni's suggestion to give up digs in her gut.

" _We_ _have_ _a_ _problem_ _,"_  she relays to her partner.

" _..._ _Give_ _me_ _a_ _minute_ _,"_  comes his delayed response.

Crap! Soul's still in the barrier below, trying to swim to freedom as she had. Maka reaches for his wavelength, feeling his fatigue and irritation at having to fight once more just to get into his own damn room. She urges him up, to keep going no matter how much his lungs ignite. She searches for where he should surface, trying to kick in the general direction while floating on the piano bench. Soul's already so tired from battling his demons though, and-

" _They_ _'_ _re_ _following_ _me_ _,_ _too_ _."_

This isn't the greatest news, and neither is this ocean the best place to defend themselves from an army of demon blobs.

The champion of said army is presently still gallivanting in Soul's body, picking a fight with Spirit while Maka stands in place, useless. Her father has sprouted several scythes, seeming to bristle with anger the longer the Oni speaks.

" _Isn_ _'_ _t_ _she_ _great_ _?_ _You_ _should_ _be_ _very_ _proud_ _._ _She_ _'_ _s_ _finally_ _created_ _a_ _deathscythe_ _greater_ _than_ _you_ _."_

"You  **brat** **.**  Is this how you protect your meister? You shit!"

"That's not Soul, dude, I keep tellin' you," Black Star calls from the sidelines, or maybe the front lines, covered head to toe in green slime and never ceasing his rescue mission. "That's something  _else_ _!"_

Move! He's standing right next to her, if she could just...  _punch_ _him_ _in_ _the_ _face_  or something, derail this confrontation-

" _I_ _saw_ _you_ _and_ _Screw_ _-_ _head_ _working_ _with_ _that_ _meddling_ _Death_ _God_ _,_ _even_ _if_ _my_ _host_ _was_ _miserably_ _oblivious_ _."_

It's like the demon has a personal vendetta against her father. What is he talking about?

" _Nice_ _try_ _._ _Too_ _late_ _though_ _-_ _you_ _'_ _ve_ _been_ _surpassed_ _,_ _Death_ _Scythe_ _!_ _Replaced_ _!"_  He chuckles, sounding more twisted than Soul had ever been.  _"_ _Maka_ _has_ _no_ _ **use**_ _ **for**_ _ **you**_ _ **,"**_  he grins happily, watching the emotions playing on her Papa's face.  _"_ _She_ _doesn_ _'_ _t_ _need_ _you_ _anymore_ _._ _Isn_ _'_ _t_ _that_ _right_ _?_ _Maka_ _."_

No! No, no, no, no, why is her head nodding? Her mouth splits wide with a beaming smile.

" _Good_ _._ _I_ _'_ _m_ _sick_ _of_ _looking_ _at_ _his_ _face_ _!"_

Several things happen at once, for Maka: her heart breaks at her father's expression, her ears painfully ring with a furious shriek from Stein's monster, and the Oni's arm reaches around her neck and turns into a blade, dragging it across his opposite forearm.

And she watches,  _watches_ , in ten different brands of dread, and does nothing as little horned horrors drip to the sodden ground and launch themselves at her stunned father.

For whatever reason, by chance or by design, her eyes land once more on Blair's, who is still worriedly perched on Spirit's shoulder. They're golden, glowing, and reminiscent of the cufflinks the cat had picked up from the jeweler several days ago. This random connection sends a single feeling vibrating through her soul, beckoning and pleading for her attention.

Reality pauses. It's a note, she realizes- sent to her by her partner, who knows he can't make it to the surface alone.

Not truly understanding her actions yet, she's already diving off her floating bench, swimming, floundering to the half-broken piano. She only knows if she doesn't do something soon, they'll be entering a deeper hell than the present. Soul is drowning, pulled under by claws and insanity, her father is about to get another stab in the general vicinity of  _his_ _face_ , and she knows which note to play.

She even knows which little ivory key on the piano it is, and she wonders if Papa had somehow known that she would need to learn how to play; if he had reason to buy and gift wrap her own copy of a certain book instead of merely checking it from the library for her, to keep for as long as she needed.

Three before middle C, a clear note rings out.

It's a straightforward kind of sound, one that hits the resonant frequency of her own bones and crashes outward. It's her personal antithesis of insanity.

Even with the hole in it, the piano sings brightly, the sound thrumming under her finger. G is a nuclear missile, burning through the waters and sizzling them into a clean steam. It pushes in all directions, conquering everything in its path. All the broken things- the furniture, the records, the papers, the candles- are swept to the edges of the room, and Maka's note breaks those down too. The Black Room becomes an island in a dwindling sea, curtains and chaos washing away.

Her bare feet splash in the receding water, red and black tiles drying under her steps. She finds Soul on hands and knees, heaving for breath between wet coughs.  _"_ _God_ _I_ _'_ _m_ _glad_ _that_ _worked_ _."_

She's glad too, but she is too aware of how blackened the tips of his fingers still look, and how the skin peeking out from his torn suit sleeve is burned. They've bought a place to hold their ground. There is still a lot of work to do.

The passage of time relative to reality has normalized, now that they're no longer in the barrier. The real world is at a crawl, Spirit only just deflecting Black Blood with a bladed arm. Blair, baring her teeth, tail a furry bristle, forms magic in slow motion between her paws. And the Oni, beginning to notice Maka's disruption in the Black Room, is turning his furious gaze on her, living blood weakening and wilting.

This is their chance to do some damage, probably now or never. She offers her hand and Soul takes it, standing. He angrily loosens his tie, yanking it over his head. "Let's do this," he growls with a determination she hasn't seen in him in a long time.

"Heh." He replies to her thoughts as he leads her to the piano. "I want my soul back."

" _ **You**_ _ **can**_ _ **'**_ _ **t**_ _ **have**_ _ **it**_ _ **back**_ _ **,"**_  booms a voice that forcibly reminds Maka of the pounding in her temples. Tingling shocks race through the hand still connected to Soul's, while his opposite arm sprouts a golden blade.

"The fuck I can!" Soul shouts, head swiveling to locate the demon but finding no one.

They don't have time for this! The clock is ticking, and considering the last time they had a confrontation in here with the Oni, she'd been forced to retreat to her own soul.  _"_ _Possess_ _me_ _,_ _"_  she urges her partner, but when she gets no response she finds that his eyes are fixated at a point in the distance, somewhere on the black ocean's horizon.

Maka feels an intense discomfort blooming in him, bordering on nausea and chasing the tails of horror. Quickly, he averts his gaze to her, looking rushed. "You're right. Sit," he says shortly.

Of course she's right! But... sit where? The bench had been washed away along with everything else. But here it is again, upright and pristine. He reminds her that he'll at least summon some god damn furniture if nothing else in this shitty possessed soul of his.

Right. She makes to sit, but it's made difficult by Soul refusing to let go of her hand. It's then she sees what he'd been staring at, advancing towards them. It's a surreal tide coming in to shore, a wall of tarnished, golden hair spawning from the sea. It grows taller, the demon's army manifesting in excessive Maka-replicas, until every Maka stands on her own two feet in identical, fluttery, white-to-black ombre dresses, every pair of olive green eyes focused on her weapon.

A unique sense of guilt lines her stomach with lead. She understands very abruptly that this is a diversion unmistakably designed for her weapon alone. His fingers twitch and rattle in her grasp.

"Soul."

His head snaps back to hers, eager to look away. "He knows what we're tryin' to do. This is to distract me," he murmurs, as if saying the obvious aloud will steel his nerves.

"You know I'm right here, right?" she asks, holding his gaze.

He blinks, eyes falling to their connected hands a moment before returning. He gives her a resigned, wry smile. "Yeah." He guides her to the piano bench, letting go of her hand.

" _Soul_ _,"_  a fake Maka calls from the distance, and though his jaw clenches, Soul's eyes do not waver. He places his hand over the wound on the top of the piano, scowling.

"When we Sway, he's gonna come straight for you. But don't stop. Don't stop for  **anything** **,**  okay?"

Her voice is steady. "I won't." She already feels his will slowly pouring into her, C-sharp minor weaving between them in a familiar tapestry. Her back is gently nudged into proper playing posture, something so ingrained in him that the reflex of it is transferred to her. Maka watches as he holds his bladed arm close, removing his hand from the piano and resting it on the weapon held at the ready. His eyes appear to look through her for half a moment before facing her Black Blood copies.

"One last thing," he says, voice rumbling through her, words nearly in her own mouth. It's more of a suggestion than a request, and she feels Soul Sway her to face forward.  _"_ _You_ _shouldn_ _'_ _t_ _turn_ _around_ _."_

Her hands touch the keys. The opening chords smash into existence, an amalgam of her wavelength and his cycling through the insanity of his piano. The instrument is the embodiment of her weapon's soul, and she, the 'Anti-Demon', is in the driver's seat, putting it through its paces.

She can't turn around, but she is not deaf. Her voice, borrowed dozens of times over by the Oni, breaks into peals of anguish all around her. "No!" some of them cry in unison, fake (or maybe genuine) tears coloring their words.

"Don't trust her!"  
"She's the fake!"  
"It'll kill you!"  
"Make it stop,  _please_ _,_  Soul, no!"

He hadn't wanted her to know, to see the hundreds of ways he knows how to slice up a kishin applied to her, but even if she faces away she can still feel it through him. Her arms stretch across the keys while he runs blades through soft flesh in her image. Soul concentrates on the music for her to play, but she knows he's fully aware of the things they whisper to him before they melt into black. Things to shake him and distract him, they're not unlike the words she had said to her friends and family in reality. The demon says anything to try to break his host.

"You're weak! Infected! I'm better off wielding  _Papa_ _~"  
_ _"_ You couldn't even remember me. What kind of weapon are you?"  
"Y-you promised you'd never hurt your meister..."  
" _ **Liar**_ _ **."**_

She feels his heart twisting, her fingers aching with the ferocity that he directs her to pound into the keys.  _"_ _They_ _aren_ _'_ _t_ _me_ _,"_ she assures him, wanting so much to embrace him but forcing herself to focus on the task at hand.

" _I_ _know_ _they_ _aren_ _'_ _t_ _!"_  he nearly shouts in her mind, desperate. Echoed images of her face splattered with Black Blood seep through the bond despite his efforts. The song he has written booms across tiles and water like a siren.  _"_ _I_ _know_ _because_ _there_ _'_ _s_ _something_ _that_ _little_ _shit_ _can_ _'_ _t_ _copy_ _,_ _even_ _if_ _he_ _wanted_ _to_ _."_

Soul continues to cut down demon Makas, images of fluttering pigtails and small hands reaching past him to try and grasp the original's neck flickering in the back of their minds. Her hands are directed to a different part of the piano's keys to start the next movement.

" _This_ _part_ _is_ _you_ _."_

Maka's soul seems to expand, crackling with sparks before roaring into fire. Soul's piano is the fan to her flame. Her amplifier.

" _You_ _'_ _re_ _the_ _only_ _one_ _with_ _wings_ _."_

Her body burns.


	29. Stars When You Shine, You Know How I Feel

**Stars When You Shine, You Know How I Feel  
Soul**

He counts them to the tempo of the song. He can't stop himself. To count, to find the pattern, the rhythm of everything, is something so innate in him that it requires no thought process, like knowing when to shift gears on the motorcycle, or like mindlessly picking apart the time signature of every song on the radio. He counts them- the Makas- and they tattoo a permanent tally for future reference to fuel his nightmares, assuming the next time he closes his eyes he can expect to wake up again.

His meister burns, the contamination from his blood being forcefully cleansed from her soul. He can't look behind him to see her, which is just as well, because he would probably go blind. Light floods around his body, staggering the copies that try to swarm them. They screech and wail, clawing at their eyes, and then at him in vengeance.

Each one he kills, he feels exactly how they end. Because they're not Maka. Not really. Oh, they sound like her, and feel like her, and again, their teary green eyes are an endless source of nightmare fodder, but they aren't her. They're him.

Jugulars are an easy target on that swan neck. His own aches from so many phantom beheadings that it's almost becoming numb to him. More than once, he slices diagonally, setting his own scar on fire. Each one that slowly melts and evaporates from his (or maybe her) anti-demon blades makes him feel a little more tired, a little more defeated. But he can't stop. It is not an option.

She burns, and so will he. He aches, and so will she. But it's just pain. They won't panic over a little pain, right? They promised. Keep playing. Don't give in. Keep fighting. Don't look back.

It's funny, in a stupid, makes-him-want-to-punch-babies-in-the-face kind of way, that he'd spent all day thinking he'd been denied the rank of Death Scythe, when in reality everyone had just been waiting on his slow ass to prove he was one. And so here he is, finally the autonomous weapon he's always sort of envied to be. But he's not alone. His meister has his back. And that's how it should be.

Soul defends. Maka plays. They fight though their arms are on fire, shrieking, melting, exploded, still going, hearts shuddering.

" _It_ _'_ _s_ _hurting_ _you_ _,"_  she thinks worriedly, his music flowing through her, around her, from her, like a breeze to glide on.

" _Focus_ _,"_  he replies. Maybe to himself. It hurts. It hurts, but the blood is getting weaker right along with him. And it won't be a stalemate in the end.

He'd hoped he would develop a numbness to cutting down so many iterations of her face, but it appears to be yet another one of those things that just won't dissipate over time. Black Blood, formaldehyde, and Maka. But slowly, as he grows weary and his breath comes out in ragged gasps, he notices the demon's army slows, becoming discoordinated. Maka's faces aren't so much exact replicas anymore. Eventually, just as the original hears the very end of the song, her fingers bringing the measures into existence for the first time, Soul faces the last of his demons.

The lingering dregs of the Black Blood form into one final, wobbly entity. Little Ogre's voice is naught but a wheezing thing. Soul does not feel guilty whatsoever.

" _I_ _only_ _made_ _us_ _stronger_ _,"_  he says, still crawling towards them, leaking black across the tiles.  _"_ _How_ _many_ _times_ _have_ _I_ _protected_ _her_ _when_ _you_ _couldn_ _'_ _t_ _?"_

God, he's so tired. Too tired to take the jab to heart, to be honest. The fact that the Black Blood has endangered his meister in more ways than he can count pretty much outweighs any benefits the demon can throw at him. Soul only grasps a fatigued arm with a hand, catching his breath while Maka gets pissed for him.

"You call this 'protecting me'?" she shouts, and she plays the ending melody a little more loudly than necessary. "Jackass!"

Her force makes the Oni topple and trip, and consequently himself as well. Soul doesn't sit so much as collapse next to his meister on the piano bench, she facing forward, he facing behind. He's been here before, he thinks, but he can't place the when or why. He's too preoccupied trying to see straight, his chest aching.

"Soul..." Maka breathes, quieting her playing in apology.

He can't look at her. She's shining so brightly, ethereal wings phasing through him. "Don't stop," he hoarsely reminds.

From the floor, the demon sneers, horns drooping. Little Ogre squints, black eyes reduced to slits in a feeble, ridiculously shaped face.  _"_ _What_ _will_ _you_ _do_ _,"_  he gurgles,  _"_ _without_ _the_ _Blood_ _,_ _boy_ _?"_

Fuck if he knows. He'll probably just be cool and not give a shit, never worrying again about the unknowns of Black Blood and if he's a threat to his partner. Soul's too winded to say all this aloud though, so he settles for forcing air in his lungs and flipping the bird to Little Ogre with a small grin.

He feels a hesitant mental prod from Maka.  _"_ _What_ _comes_ _next_ _?"_  she asks. Soul realizes the music has stopped. He turns his head- fuck, it weighs twenty tons- and he sees that his meister's supernova glow is dying down as she waits for the next measure.

But there is none. That's the end.

Soul only composes, only writes what he knows, and he doesn't know what comes next. And he's worn out. He doesn't think he can even stand to stab this last asshole in front of him, much less come up with more music on the spot. It's a stalemate after all.

Suddenly, he feels something  _shift_ _._  The tides turn, Sway ending as Maka drops her left hand to her lap, the fingers of her right moving across the keys of her own volition.  _"_ _I_ _know_ _a_ _song_ _."_

He finds it in himself to manage a single laugh. A scribble of a thought on a faded post-it note will be his insanity's undoing. Maka has treasured it since she'd learned it.

Even as Little Ogre groans, sizzling away from the onslaught of gentle, comforting notes, he says,  _"_ _Without_ _me_ _,_ _you_ _'_ _re_ _weak_ _."_

Soul sluggishly turns his back on the demon, dragging his legs around to face the keys with Maka. He grimaces, right side of his vision blinded by her, who has begun to shine once more. He reaches for the surface of the piano, stretching to place his palm on the scar the Blood has left behind. "Without you, I am a Death Scythe," he says.

And because Maka only knows how to play half of the song, Soul brings up his other hand to join her on the lower register. The weapon, his piano, amplifies the meister.

* * *

He catches his first glimpse of the real world and he's still so used to being on fake-Maka-slicing autopilot that he almost goes for the original out of habit. Luckily, he's choking on his own blood, and the act of coughing interrupts him from doing anything stupid.

" _Get_ _away_ _from_ _me_ _,"_  he hears himself gurgle, but that's not the plan. He has to remain attached to her to keep the resonance going. They have to be connected to keep playing the song. Half of him tries to slide away from Maka, feet sloshing uncooperatively in the rainwater, while the other half desperately clings to her, refusing to let go. Because there really isn't a more satisfying feeling than being completely merged with his meister, remember? It's time to shut up.

" _No_ _,"_  he's screaming,  _"_ _You_ _idiots_ _,_ _you_ _'_ _re_ _killing_ _me_ _!"_

Maka seems to be in control of her faculties (which is great, because he's not), and says things in a worried, frantic voice he can't understand over the sound of his lungs turning inside out.

He's crumpling next to her, and she supports him, helping him to the shaking, bucking ground where he belongs. She shields him from something- her father, maybe, or that squidney beast of oozing doom, or it could be anyone, he's getting so many wavelengths from readings piggybacked from Maka's Perception- her body wrapping over his drooping head as he watches blood fall from him like shedding a second skin. He's in a suit, or was, and it melts off him, revealing the soaked street clothes he vaguely remembers wearing before everything went to hell. His forearm has a gash running across it that he doesn't know how had come to be. Maybe Stein did that one too, fuck if he knows. It won't seal up like before, though. It's just spewing black syrup in a Niagara cascade, swirling to his and Maka's knees in eddies of rainwater and blood. He wonders if it'll ever stop, and if it does, if there'll be anything left in him.

Oh. It occurs to him that he's probably dying. On a shitty, humid summer evening. A Friday. The first Friday of summer vacation. The first Friday he's ever lived since Maka told him, with words, out loud, and not accidentally, that she loves him. On this stupid day, his soul is rejecting his blood, and he's going to die.

So much for staying at Maka's side. He tried. Maybe a little too hard. She's always been the overachiever, so he was bound to pick up on her habits eventually. He wants to do so many things, wants to just look into her face to make sure she won't let him go, but ultimately, he's overwhelmed with a single thought.

Finally.

Finally, he thinks. That's right. This is how it was, before Italy. Lighter. Pressureless. The weight of it, the fear, the constant energy expended to keep everything locked up, in check, under wraps, the neverending simmer of the Black Blood lurking in the shadow of his heart, is bleeding away. Finally.

He feels good.

Well, good for a dying man, anyhow. Soul blacks out for the second time today, his demon fleeing, his fingers clutching at Maka's leather jacket (actually his).

How nice of her to bring it for him.

* * *

He flies. He doesn't want  _deal_  with work right now. Unfortunately, no matter which direction he goes, he comes face to face with an instrument, its legs anchored in a mess of pine needles. He stares into the dark gloss of a piano, and wonders if he's had this dream before. Looking closely at the surface of it, he thinks he sees something in the shine- something he recognizes but can't immediately name.

It ripples like water, or maybe it sways like wind, and it forcefully pulls at his heart, dragging him into the piano, melting, gliding on taught strings and feathered wings, and he finds himself grasping after a song as he plummets into that black hole. Harmonies slip through his fingers, dribbling down, out his mouth and ears and nose, black oil leaving his body. But as it leaves him, he finds he can hear something else entirely.

_I_ _learned_ _your_ _lullaby_ _,_ _Soul_ _._

_Can_ _you_ _hear_ _it_ _?_

Maybe he should leave the flying to her. The music is clearer when he falls.

* * *

Soul breathes. He's not sure why. He stands up. He's not sure how that happens, either. How's a guy supposed to stay dead around here? And why in Death's name is everyone screaming?

Spirit is yelling at Black Star, who yells into a hole he'd probably punched with undiluted ego in the squid-beast, which is shrieking loud enough to rattle the entire state of Nevada, while Kid is using that freakish shinigami voice to shout at Blair, and louder than anything else in the universe is the Maka Station in his head on full freakin' blast.

Squinting, Soul glances down at the ground, the rubble of Gallows Mansion looking very inviting and comfortable, but for some reason he can't convince himself to cease standing. Beyond, where Kid's pool used to be, is Mister Kraken, now a peculiar shade of black. Thirteen steps away stands Maka, whose dread and despair batter him with hurricane force.

She's positive everything is her fault. The moment the demon sword Ragnarok had pierced his skin instead of hers had inevitably signed them up for this moment, and her ultimate punishment is to face it alone without him.

What is her freakin' deal? He's right here!

He tries to call out to her, but his voice is a rasping whisper compared to all the obnoxious noise going on. The effort to pull in enough air to raise his voice is so difficult he's surprised he's even breathing at all. It's then he realizes he's probably only standing and wheezing like an invalid because of Maka.

She doesn't even realize she's doing it. She's always been adept at warping their link. A little annoyingly too adept, because she's so loud he can't even get a thought across. Her blaring misery and anguish might be touching if he were in a different state of physical health (the term 'health' being used loosely), but presently it's irritating and confusing.

She just wants him at her side- had that been too greedy of her?

Soul's feet slosh over to her, which is convenient, because he doesn't think he can move those on his own right now. He winces at his meister's complete shock after he slurs, "Turn down yer volume."

"Soul! Oh my GOD!" Maka looks like hell. She's beat up, bloody, wet, and her makeup streaks down her face in little rivers of mascara. Her eyes are red-rimmed and glistening.

He offers a smile, but his face feels like hardened plaster and he's unsure if his mouth pulls it off effectively. "Hey." Damn. He sounds like  _shit_ _._  "What's up with that guy," he asks, indicating the still-bellowing monster with the faintest of chin nods.

That Guy promptly explodes, twin beams of swirling light shooting into the cloudy night sky.

"What the  **fuck** **-** " he croaks, voice cracking.

Maka's arms crush him to death. Or life. Or something. She doesn't give a rat's ass that gigantic, aquatic, cephalopod-kidneys are self-destructing, or that the chunks of former cephalopod-kidneys are raining down on them, sizzling. "Soul!" she cries. "You! You- You  _shouldn_ _'_ _t_ _be_ _standing_ _,"_  she says, her practical, no-nonsense side rearing its head.

Soul promptly falls to the ground, knees unbuckling. "Thank you," he sighs, relieved. Surprised, Maka kneels down with him, holding him under his arms to keeping him sitting up. The link is nothing but her happy disbelief floating around him, full of fear that he'll just keel over again.

He blinks owlishly at the spot where the monster had been, seeing Stein, Marie, and, off to the side, Tsubaki, who hugs Black Star to her green-covered body.

"Look at me!" Maka demands, frantic. He can't stop himself, so he looks into her wide eyes. Watching her search his face, he's really glad he decided to let gravity pull him back home.

"Are you okay?!"  
"Not really."

Maka makes a symphony of distressed noises. "You're shivering. You're... here-" She takes off her jacket, his jacket, whatever, and drapes it around him. It's wet, but warm. "You... your blood. It went  _everywhere_! It infected Mister Kraken, and then you... Soul, you-"

"Maka."

She sniffles loudly, humming a question mark.

"I really wanna lay down now."  
"W-what?"  
"You're Swayin' me, and I  _can_ _'_ _t_ _."_

She swears colorfully, which makes him laugh. Maka puts a hand under his head. "Lay down! Take it easy! Um? Umm, don't die! I forbid you to die."

"Okay," he groans, closing his eyes, dimly aware that she still orders him around like a dog, but he's really okay with it presently, and feels Maka Albarn encourage his heart to keep beating with pure willpower alone.

There are a lot of voices and wavelengths swarming him, and he tunes these out, listening to a handful of notes and Maka emotionally admitting through the link,  _"_ _I_ _didn_ _'_ _t_ _want_ _you_ _to_ _go_ _."_

Well, he'd wanted to stay, so he guesses they had a common goal in mind.

* * *

The first time he wakes up, he wonders why they'd installed such a shitty mirror on the side of the hospital room. What sickly person wants to see that? God, he looks even more like his brother than ever.

The room tilts and he's asleep again.

The second time he wakes up, he's staring blearily at Kim Diehl, not even sure when his eyes had opened. She checks an IV. Oh. It's his. Right.

"Good morning," she says. The chill quiet of the hospital room and the lack of obnoxious fluorescent lights gives him the feeling that it's not quite morning yet, no matter what the witch/meister says.

In reply, Soul blinks. The world vibrates with his unhealth.

"Need anything? Too hot? Too cold?"

Actually, he does need to do something. "Thank you," he blurts, mouth feeling like he's chewing around a stack of sandpaper.

It's her turn to blink, confused. She brushes her pink hair out of her face with the back of a wrist, keeping her latex-gloved hand untouched. "You're welcome? I didn't do anything though. Stein handled the transf-"

Soul's already shaking his head. Slowly, though, because wow, the Earth is spinning way too damn fast. "For Maka. Last week." It truthfully feels like last  _year_ , but he doesn't feel like trying to explain that to her. "Never thanked you."

Kim makes a noise in the back of her throat, giving him a puzzled smile. "I... That was nothing, Soul, I'd already forgotten about it."

He breathes evenly, unable to keep his eyes open. "M'grateful," he murmurs. He thinks he hears her say something softly, but doesn't catch it before he's asleep again.

The third time he wakes up, his eyes snap open, body immediately on alert because his Weird-Shit-o-Meter is going off in his head like a radiation detector at Chernobyl. He feels a wavelength he's never known, but feels acquainted with, somehow. He starts to sit up and is immediately derailed by an arm draped over his chest.

Of course it's Maka, out cold in the hospital bed with him, the link latched to him protectively. He wonders if Spirit knows she's in here. Her face is clean and bare, and she wears soft shorts and a shirt he recognizes as his favorite. She's kicked the covers off of them both, he notes.

His fingers feel weak as he gently moves her left arm away, tucking it carefully against her chest. He pulls her half of the blanket up over her shoulder, despite knowing keeping her covered is futile at best. Well, she's here and he's here and they're both alive, so that's more or less perfect.

Then he hears his brother chuckle from across the room, and that is less perfect.

Soul slowly looks over to the right. He could have sworn there'd been a mirror on that side of the room, but he now realizes it was Wes he'd groggily seen the first time he woke up, and mistaken him for himself.

"Hey," his brother says.

This is the absolute wrong universe to be seeing him. Soul suffers from a weird, disorienting displacement of everything he knows to be true and organized, seeing Wes sitting in a chair and Stein standing next to him. Both of the men's wavelengths are present, one familiar as his creepy professor, and the other not as unknown as he'd originally thought. It's something he's always kind of known since he was old enough to reach piano keys. Soul opens his mouth to speak, and finds that sandpaper stack again, this time too dry to even manage a 'what the fuck'.

A clear plastic cup of water waits for him on his bedside table, set atop a broken-in, familiar-to-his-cranium, paperback novel. He can't help but smile.

Soul takes a sip. "What's goin' on?"

Wes looks a lot older than he remembers (which doesn't exactly help matters with the mistaken identity incident), but then again his brother has that universal aura of jet-lag coming off him in waves. Despite this, Wes manages an awkward smile. "Not much. I got the strangest phonecall. Sort of? In my bathroom. From a weird guy in a black costume."

Soul grimaces. What a way to meet the Head Skull-Cheese for the first time.

"Shinigami-sama asked your brother for assistance," Stein clarifies.

"Well, first he said my brother was temporarily dead.  _Then_  he asked for help."

Oh yeah. "I died," Soul hollowly repeats. He knows this to be true, but it's a hazy, black to white ombre shift of pine needles and piano polish kind of truth that he can't grasp directly.

Stein takes off his glasses and wipes a lens with the hem of his stitched shirt. It appears that both his arms are functioning, and, oh, he has both ears too. That's good. "I can't say for certain as I'd been purposefully ingested at the time-" Soul watches Wes handle this statement by squinting his eyes suspiciously at the professor. "But I would say your wavelength completely disappeared for approximately thirty-two seconds," he says boredly, replacing his glasses on his face.

Soul exchanges a glance with his brother. Wes looks somehow both aghast and a tad impressed, giving him a nod. Soul takes another sip of water to try to bypass the open stares silently asking what death was like.

"Maka woke me up," he offers to the silence, head tilting towards his meister's sleeping face. Out of curiosity, Soul gently nudges her through the link. Her end of it just rustles drowsily, like a roosting bird with fluffed feathers.

"Yes." Stein crossed his arms over his chest. "She wore herself out keeping you alive until we could get you a proper blood donor."

Soul watches her shoulder rise and fall with her even breathing and realizes he'd strangely ended up getting a transfusion after all. He looks up at Wes. "So, you..."

"O-neg plus scythe gene," Wes smiles. "Even though mine's dormant. But apparently that's okay?" he shrugs at Stein, looking lost.

Stein sniffs casually, looking calculatingly at Soul. "Evidently so." Soul mildly glares at the professor, understanding enough 'hakase-speak' to know that, in other words, his recovery had been mostly in the hands of dumb luck and theoretical science.

Fuck it. He can't really give a shit about the whys or hows. Maka brought him back from death or something like it, and his brother had flown in to help keep him alive. That's enough for him.

"Thank you."

Wes waves a hand in casual dismissal, briefly revealing the tiny patch of gauze taped on the inside of his forearm. "Not sure how you managed to lose your blood and still live, but glad to've helped. Good to see you alive, brother."

"Speaking of," Stein interjects in an uninterested tone that clashes with his words, "you might want to see if you can still transform."

Shit. He takes a breath. Tells himself to cool it. He exchanges the cup of water to his left hand and holds his right out in front of him.

It's as easy as breathing. He's a little surprised though- for some reason, he'd expected the blade to be white-gold. But it's his usual red and black pattern.

Stein hums, intrigued and pleased. Soul will never admit aloud that maybe it's okay to be a guinea pig.  _Sometimes_ _._  As in very rarely and only in life or death situations. He sighs in relief.

"That's still pretty cool," Wes says, eyeing the scythe. Soul grins widely, but not for long, because his brother follows the compliment with, "So, when's the wedding?"

He really wishes Stein's knob in his head wasn't so damn loud and indicative of his intense nosiness.  _"_ _Haaah_ _?"_

"Mom and Dad wanna know," Wes slyly smiles.

All of Soul's coolness evaporates, along with his blade. "Wha- Are they  **here** **?!** "

"Nah, they're back at the hotel, sleeping off the culture shock. That, and your friend's... explosive personality," his brother chuckles, waving his hand at Maka.

Oh crap, Maka met his parents and he hadn't been conscious to mediate. "What happened," he says with trepidation.

Stein might actually have the smallest of smiles when he says, "They tried to kick her out."

_"What."_

"They didn't understand. Granted, I'm not sure I do either, but they wanted it to be family only. You looked kinda shitty there, for awhile," Wes admits.

Soul rubs the back of his head. How does one say 'sorry for being half-dead and worrying everybody'?

"Anyway, she said she's your fiancee and we could just 'deal with it'."

His mouth goes dry, so Soul takes another sip of his water while his face heats up. Of course Maka would be asleep and not help him with this situation!

"Unless she lied and you've already eloped and didn't tell us."

He chokes mid-swallow.

"Oooh, Gran's gonna be pissed at you."

" _We_ _didn_ _'_ _t_ _elope_ _,"_  he wheezes, scowling at his brother's teasing grin.

Eventually, after much heckling, Wes leaves the room to contact their parents and let them know Soul's awake. Stein follows, suggesting more rest as his body still has blood to replenish.

Finally alone with his meister, he slouches. They really need to stop landing in the hospital so much. But he takes a deep breath, one so clear and stressless that he is reminded of the simple ease of existing without the weight of Black Blood, and he thinks that maybe staying out of the hospital a little more often is a thing they can do, now.

It's probably wishful thinking though. More than likely, he'll be back within a week from her giving him a concussion.

He rolls his head to one side to look at her. His face is still a little warm with embarrassment.

" _Maka_ _."_

She doesn't stir. He could probably say  _that_  out loud now with no problems, but doing it while she's asleep is probably cheating.

He wonders how long she'd Swayed him to live until his brother came. Wonders how tiring that must have been. Wants to kiss her. Realizes he can. Realizes she'd told his parents (his  _parents_ , holy  **shit** **)** that, fuck everything, they're gonna marry, so there. He both wishes he could've seen their faces and is equally glad he was unconscious at the same time.

Well, he hadn't denied  _all_  of Wes' accusations, so he imagines he'll be seeing their faces on his own soon enough.

Soul scoots down in bed, gets his IV caught on every damn thing in a three foot radius, finally gets situated with his head on the pillow, and sighs. Facing Maka, he moves hair out of her face- which he knows every line of, every gesture, every quirk and smile and snarl- and kisses her forehead because the angle is stupid and he can't reach her damn mouth. It's just as well, because that's when Spirit Albarn and a pallet jack roll into the room without a care in the world, his cargo scraping on the hospital room door.

He feels Maka startle, but she just curls more into his side and keeps her eyes stubbornly shut.

" _You_ _little_ _cheater_ _."_

" _Shush_ _,"_ comes her silent reply.  _"_ _I_ _wanna_ _see_ _what_ _he_ _says_ _when_ _he_ _thinks_ _I_ _'_ _m_ _not_ _listening_ _."_

" _..._ _Okay_ _,_ _but_ _only_ _'_ _cause_ _you_ _saved_ _my_ _life_ _and_ _I_ _'_ _m_ _gonna_ _make_ _out_ _with_ _you_ _as_ _soon_ _as_ _he_ _'_ _s_ _gone_ _."_

He can nearly hear her eyes rolling behind her eyelids. Soul sits up once more, irritated but curious as to what Spirit has brought in. He groans when he recognizes it.

Spirit frowns at him, carefully glances at his 'sleeping' daughter, and mildly says, "They're 'get well' flowers." He pulls a sheet off of the giant window box of herbs and budding flowers.

"You can't give me her present," he hisses. "That's messed up."

"Who said they're for you?" Spirit quips.

" _He_ _gave_ _them_ _to_ _me_ _once_ _already_ _,"_  Maka remarks dryly across the link, her feelings unsurprised.

Death Scythe continues. "All you did was bleed to death.  _She_  did all the work for you."

Soul's mouth snaps shut, having no reasonable means to refute this statement, and too grateful to Maka to really want to. He feels his partner's mental equivalent to a blush.  _"_ _I_ _'_ _m_ _ **fine**_ _ **,"**_  she assures him.

"Congratulations," Spirit says with zero amount of pleasure. He pulls up the legs of his slacks slightly before sitting in a chair with a sigh. "You passed. Shinigami deems you fit to be his next weapon."

Immediately, the link swarms him with Maka's mental chattering. Soul swallows this down, cautiously staring down the older man. "Seriously? After all that? I mean, pretty sure I amputated Stein's arm at some point."

Spirit only plucks at the end of his tie and regards it dully. "It's unofficial, but you've been approved by everyone with authority." At this, Soul feels Maka's urge to surge out of bed and tackle her father in a hug, but not wanting to give herself away just yet.

A long moment of skeptical silence. "Even you?" he blurts, ignoring his partner's glee.

Spirit looks like he's just been caught off guard mid-chew of the slimiest, grossest, fungus assdirt mushroom in the history of humanity (if Spirit were a normal person that understood that mushrooms are, in fact, terrible), and he shifts his eyes to the side, burning a hole into a wall with his glare. "I said 'everyone', didn't I?"

Silently, despite her loud nuclear warheads of joy on the link, Maka sits up, and her father looks absolutely unsurprised. Soul supposes a father knows when his daughter is faking sleep. She pecks a kiss on Soul's cheek, promising a lot more private time later, and slides off the hospital bed to pad over to her father, barefoot.

"Take off your shoes," she says simply, and Soul, three different shades of weirded-out, watches Spirit happily comply.

And they start dancing.

"Uhhh..." He's still trying to process the whole 'next right hand of the Lord of Death' thing, and having this random, clumsy, shoeless waltz in his hospital room makes him wonder if this is just a hallucination and if Kim Diehl had slipped painkillers into his IV by mistake.

"Just go with it," Maka says over her shoulder.

Whatever, maybe things make a lot less sense now that he doesn't have insanity in his bloodstream. Everyone else is crazy. Attempting to go with their (admittedly kind-of ...cute) father-daughter moment, he hesitantly says, "So... I'm strong enough."

Spirit's even more reluctant to speak, but a look from his daughter and he admits, "It hasn't been a question of your ability for awhile, now."

Holy shit, was that a compliment? Fuck  _yes_  it was. Soul keeps his pleasure on silent channels.

Maka confidently replies, "It was the Black Blood. But it's gone now, right? He's not being hindered anymore."

"Tests are still being run," Spirit says to her before turning his gaze to Soul, "but Stein's confident you're clear."

Soul looks at his hands, no longer seeming unfamiliar. He doesn't need any test results. He already knows, plain and unmistakable, that the demon is long gone and traceless.

"That being said, I think you already know the Blood wasn't the only thing keeping us from nominating you."

He sort of understands. Maka doesn't, though, and a worried C-Sharp minor queries him. Soul flexes his fingers, still a little weak, but not black and deadened. All this time, he and Maka had been working to make him the next Death Scythe, because she had a goal and he thought it sounded pretty cool.

But he knows it's more than just a title. It's a job. The rank is something a weapon should want for more than just the name. And, in the past several days, he's had his share of self-doubt, gone through moments not thinking he could stand another second in another meister's hands, been unable to imagine doing his job without Maka to keep his sanity in check, and has wondered if he could ever surpass Spirit Albarn.

Soul raises his eyes, seeing his partner's questioning face, dance halted. Behind her, Spirit watches him expectantly. He can almost hear the 'quit slacking, heathen'.

Like choosing to defeat the Black Blood, this is something he has to do for himself. And he doesn't think it'll be that bad, being out of both his brother's and Spirit's shadows, and casting his own without something else lurking in it.

Soul decides he wants to be Death Scythe for a lot of reasons. For Shinigami. For the people he protects. For Maka. For his family. But also for himself.

"I want it."

This appears to be the correct answer, and he swears he sees a split-second glimmer of approval in Spirit's face.

Maka's eyes are wide and imploring, the link curling around him, curious, hopeful. "Really?" she asks, fingers clutching her father's sleeves.

"Mm."  
"I-it's your choice, I'm not forcing you to-"

He grins, assuring her. "I want to."

Maka smiles, and the link between them pulses with a singularity, growing with each beat.

" _Too_ _bad_ _~"_  Spirit sing-songs happily.

Maka whips her head around to her father in shock. "What!?"

"In case you forgot,  **I**  am Death Scythe."  
"Papa! Wait, what was the point of even-"

"I'm not that old, either, so you're just gonna have to wait til I retire," he says cheerfully, putting his hands on top of his daughter's as if she isn't trying to choke his blazer's lapels to death. "In the meantime," he says over Maka's shouting head to Soul, "I fully expect you to protect your meister as well as a  _Death_ _Scythe_  would, lack of title notwithstanding."

Soul scoffs. "I can manage that," he promises his 'father-in-law'. He leans back to rest on his elbows, feeling pretty damn cool despite being hooked up to an IV during summer vacation. "And a lot better than any Death Scythe could," he challenges smugly.

Immediately, Spirits eyes narrow. Maka groans. "I'm standing right here, you know," she says. "And I don't need  _two_  idiot deathscythes to protect me, got it?" She glares at her father first, and then equally over her shoulder at Soul. And that's the moment Spirit Albarn sees the hand-grenade.

"W-WHAT is that on your  _neck_ _?"_

Soul swears under his breath. Curse his hickey prowess!

* * *

A cup of spilled water and a Chop-induced fugue later (why'd  _he_  get hit?!), Spirit is gone, Soul's back in bed, a cat is sleeping on his stomach, and Maka, sitting in bed next to him, peels apart two wet pages in her book, waving them around to air dry.

Uhg, how many times does he have to wake up today? "Hello, fiancee," he mumbles, head rolling across his pillow to look up at her.

Book pages freeze mid-flap and Maka laughs nervously, cheekbones blazing. "...Hi. Um? I kind of just blurted that out. Your parents really-"

"I love you."

"-care... about you." Her eyes blink rapidly. "What?"

It comes out easily, even with all the trouble he has with words, even with seeing Blair's ears twitch in the corner of his eye. "I love you," he says simply.

She's smiling again, her feelings seeping through him, but she says, "Even though I might've given you a concussion?"

He nods, scratching the top of Blair's furry head, who begins to gently purr.

"Even though I told your parents I was your f-... fee... fian-"

"Kind of because of that, even," he mildly admits, watching the cat partially open up one eye with a feline smile.

The book snaps shut and is set aside. Maka leans close, and her lips press against his. "Love you too," she whispers moments later. Their hands find each other and the contact between them is reassuring in ways that nothing else can ever replicate.

* * *

The song has three movements. In the first, he had written himself: from the moment he shook Maka Albarn's hand until he realized he could smile and not fake it; until the day he felt like he was worth a damn; until the moment he felt in the right place.

The second movement is her. In this he had painted her laugh, her smile, her howl for kishin blood, and her stupid little scrunched-up nose when she's facing a plate of fish. In this, her compassion, her doubt, her courage, her hounding way to get shit done sings in a so-annoying-it's-somehow-endearing, stubborn determination.

The third movement is them. Theirs. Together. It's the screeching of their souls colliding, their voices when he's buried in her and her legs squeeze around him, the taste of her mouth lingering in his, and the smell of pine and burning wicks. It's the sound of a blade whistling through air, of gloves hissing across steel, of piano strings humming with their combined might. It's motorcycle engines and books snapping shut, and hair ties and leather jackets. It's stars falling through black holes, it's wings rustling overhead, it's scars and jars of cyst bits.

It's played in C-Sharp minor.


End file.
